


Impossible Truths

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Don't copy to another site, Drug Use, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Implied MorMor, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-08-16 03:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 38,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: “John, after the funeral- I was there and I- I heard you. That day- I heard you. What you told me.” Freeze. Those words, they were for me more than anything. He was never supposed to hear them. Yet, in a way, I guess he was. It was my promise; come home and I’ll love you. Please, let me love you.





	1. Winter Winds

** 12th January 2015**

**(John)**

“Hi, Sherlock. It’s been three years today. Three bloody years. God, I miss you.” 

His grave stands tall and defiant against the frozen grass- its surface shining brazenly in the evening sun. Six feet below lies the body of a broken man- both in body and soul.

I clear my throat, willing the right words to pour out of my mouth. I’m rubbish at this stuff. Talking to him even though I know he’s not here. Still, it feels good to let the words out. To act, for just a moment, like nothing’s changed. Like he isn't gone.

No-one will ever convince me that he told me a lie. He was never a fraud. What I saw, that was genuine. No-one can ever take that away from me. It hurts me every day that I was the only one who truly understood him for what he was- a mad genius who fell in love with the world.

“I er- I found someone. Her name’s Mary. She’s- well, she’s fantastic really. I think- I think one day, I’ll marry her. She could be it. Well, I mean she’s not you. No-one could ever be you. But she’s kind and funny and so- ordinary. I think I need that.” 

I pat his headstone slightly with my gloved hand, brushing off the light dusting of frost in the process. The sun pushes gently through the trees, sitting low in the sky and giving the world a soft orange glow. A light wind curls itself around the branches, tickling the leaves and cutting through the empty silence. Brown, curling flowers surround the base of the headstone. I never bring flowers. Sherlock would have never understood their point, claiming that they were useless to him. Mrs Hudson must have brought them. She would want to bring something for him. I haven't spoken to her in a while. It hurts too much to be around her-it brings back too many memories. 

“Anyway, I think I’ll ask. One day. You would have liked her. You have the same sense of humour.” I smile. Sherlock would have driven her nuts eventually- he always did- but I think they would have understood each other a bit.

These past few years I have tried to move on from Sherlock. He took over my life- he consumed me. I’m still not sure what to do with myself anymore. I’ve filled the enormous gap he left with the clinic and Mary but nothing is quite the same. I miss the adventure and adrenaline from before- more than I thought I could. More than I missed Afghanistan. 

“Nothing else has really changed. I don’t see anyone much. Lestrade and I sometimes meet for a pint but it’s never really the same as before. We don’t have much in common anymore. I haven’t spoken to Mrs Hudson since the funeral. I should, I know, but I can’t seem to make myself pick up the phone. You’d be annoyed at me for that, I suppose. You always did have a soft spot for her.” 

The wind picks up, hurling broken leaves at me from the canopy above. A chill starts to sink into my bones and I realise that it’s time to leave. There’s nothing much more to say. 

I let my hand drop from the headstone, clenching it into a fist and stuffing it into my pocket. This is the hardest part. Saying goodbye. Again.

“Well, I- I best be off. Mary will be waiting. I er- I didn't tell her I was here.” I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the words to come. 

“Sherlock- I love you. Please, come home.” I choke on the end of my sentence and it breaks off into the icy wind. I am beyond hoping it to be true. That by some miracle he will be alive somewhere, waiting to come home. 

I tell him the truth each time I visit, wishing above anything that I had told him when he was still alive. Told him the undeniable truth of my existence- I am hopelessly in love with him. The first time I admitted it out loud, in front of his freshly dug grave, I cried for hours- regretting every lost moment. Part of me knows that he never would have felt the same but I still wish I had told him. So he didn't die believing that the whole world was against him. He should have known he had me. Always. 

I give the headstone a last nod, then turn and walk out of the graveyard, pulling my coat closer against the cold. The wind whispers through the trees as I walk away. It flutters through my hair and whips around my ankles, begging me to stay longer. I wish I could, but there’s only so much time I can spend here. Only so much time before I have to face the truth- that he is never coming back, despite my hopeless fantasies. 


	2. Recall

**28th August 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

Running. 

Trees- obstacles. 

In the way. 

Darkness. 

Dangerous.

My thoughts can only come in short bursts. No time to think- only time to run. Let instinct take over. Fight or flight? Choose flight.

Feels like being on a case. Short bursts of information. A tree just to my left. Dogs behind me- maybe a thousand metres. Too close. Need to run.

Just like a case- running from danger. At danger. Either one. John by my side. No. John is not by my side. He is in London. John is not here. Want him to be. Need to see him. Soon.

Dogs are closing in. Four hundred metres. Three hundred metres. Two hundred metres. Men in front of me. Trapped. Encircled. Tired. Someone shouts something to me in Serbian. Don't hear. Too exhausted.

Collapse. They will take me. Let them. I’ll work out a plan. I’ll escape. Need to sleep. Can't run. Going to die? Possibly. Very possible. Don't want to. Do I? No. Need to see John. Will find John.

The floor is cold. What did I expect? It's midnight. Freezing. Still, better than running. Wait for them to take me away. That's the best thing to do. I don't want to get shot. Again.

Heavy hands pull my arms. Force me up. They begin to drag me over to a truck. Tie my limbs up. Thoughts are beginning to come back. More complicated observations. Tires are worn. Lots of off-roading. No license plate. Illegally owned. A military vehicle, but no longer in military hands. Stolen? Most likely. Driver stays in the front cab. Knows where he's going. Does he? Yes. Been there before. He's relaxed, patiently waiting.

The hands throw me roughly into the back of the truck. The door slams shut behind me. It's pitch black; I'm unable to see what else is in here with me. Who else could be here? That is a scary thought. That there could be other people in here. Awaiting their death. Or already found it. Not good.

I imagine that John's here. He can make it better. He always makes it better. He calms me down; makes me think. What would he do? Laugh probably.

"Oh, Sherlock what have we done?" He would giggle. I'd probably join in.

The truck shudders with e sudden movement and unable to grip anything, I roll- hitting something hard on the other side. Please don't be a person, I plead. I don't know what state I would find them in.

Lately, I've been more the deliverer of dead bodies than the finder of them. Though it couldn't be helped. Moriarty's network was larger than I’d thought. Harder to find substantial evidence against them. Which meant, of course, I doled out my own punishment.

"They worked for him. They deserved it." If John were here, is that what he would say? Could he? I don’t know anymore. I’m struggling to remember. 

It’s nights like these when I have to remember why I’m doing this. Why I put myself through horror after horror- facing situations I have no idea if I’ll escape from. For him, I tell myself each time. Always for him. 

Some days are too much. The constant battle wears me down, breaking down my defences. Sometimes I consider giving in- letting them take me. It’s only for a moment- the thought leaves as quickly as it came- but it’s there all the same. It frightens me, that I could even consider it. On those days, I hold on to my last memory of John, standing by my grave at the funeral. The whispered words he thought no-one could hear. 

I close my eyes and let the last whispered words of John Watson play round my head. Those three small words I never dreamed I would hear. They are a promise; a reason to get through this. Despite the shaking of the truck, the words lull me to sleep like a lullaby. 

***

Voices echo through my head. They're speaking Serbian. That's a bad sign.

"Come on up you get!" One of the voices shouts in my ear, accompanied by the sharp pain of metal against my back. I cry out, unable to stop myself. Wrong move.

"Ah, so he is awake! Good morning sleeping beauty! Something keep you up all night?" He cackles and draws the pipe back again. It connects sharply with my coccyx and causes me to lurch forward with the pain. Metal cuffs I hadn't noticed before string me to the walls like a puppet; preventing me from sinking to the floor. 

A younger man stands at the door, music blaring through his headphones. He’s new. The music is turned up loud enough so that he doesn't have to hear what’s going on here. Good move. I look around the room as much as possible, trying not to move my head in the process. Thoughts whirl around my head, calculating the best way to escape. I only have one more man to find, I can’t be stopped now. 

"Why did you break in here? Did you think you could get away with it?" Another strike with the pipe. On my kneecaps this time, the pain reverberating up my legs. I have to force myself not to scream out, to stay stone silent through each blow of the pipe that he delivers. After the fourth hit, he pauses. I notice a voice carrying across the room from the far wall- a glance upwards reveals that a man is leaning against it, watching our every move.

"Give him a chance to talk." The figure speaks. Mycroft. He is here, which means something is wrong. Is it John? Has something happened to him? No, his body language doesn't suggest so. Standing stock straight against the wall; when troubled by something he tends to lean forwards more. No, not John then. Good. Work? Probably.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself you worthless piece of shit?" Another shock of metal against bone. For a second I forgot about the Serbian in front of me. The nameless perpetrator.

Gently, I motion for him to lean forward. He complies. I tell him about his wife. Easy to deduct really. There is a wedding band around his left index finger, but the skin around it is red and raw. Stress. He's spent a lot of time worrying about something, spinning the band around his finger, irritating the skin.

There are dark bags under his eyes; lots of sleepless nights. The rest was just speculation. A lucky guess. I do have those sometimes.

"What? I knew she was doing something, that good for nothing bitch." Pipe-man throws the steel tube down with such force that it bounces off the floor into my already bruised kneecaps. I choke back a whimper, preferring instead to fall forward into my restraints. Keep the weight off my legs.

Echoes of the Serbians last act bounce around the room, filling the silence. I ignore the figure of Mycroft standing across the room. Let him speak first.

"So. This is where you ended up?" Mycroft slowly stands. He is stooping. Only slightly, but it's there. The slight hunch in his spine. Something's wrong.

"You have no idea of the trouble it took to find you. I guess it's no surprise: after all, you didn't want to be found." He gets up and absent-mindedly pulls his coat closer to his body. Weight gain. Stress eating. Oh, Mycroft. He knows it; he's realised what he's doing- pulling his coat closer to hide it. He's ashamed. Tough luck, you can't hide anything from me.

"Stressed?" The words strain my throat, coming out as mere whispers. He glares at me. I have noticed, Mycroft. I may be wounded but I'm not down. I begin to chuckle to myself, but the movement sends jolts of pain flying through me. It rushes through my body: filling my head, my shoulders, my knees. I need a doctor. I need John.

Mycroft pauses a moment, composing himself. “It’s been three years Sherlock. There’s only one piece of the web left. I think it’s time for you to come home, don't you?

Ah. Of all things, he’s been missing me. Of course he is, I’ve not been around to do his dirty work. Three years he has been perfectly content with leaving me alone, fending for myself. However, as soon as he wants something- back I must come. One click of those spindly little fingers and I will be back in London, back to doing his leg work. I wouldn't be surprised if he brought me a case the second I landed.

My silence is pointed. I know I don't have much choice in the matter- I’m going home whether I like it or not. It doesn't mean I have to indulge him. 

"Very well." Digging in his pocket Mycroft pulls out a small rusted key and slots it smoothly into the cuff holes. I fall forward. More pain radiates from me in waves, I'm surprised Mycroft hasn't begun to flinch yet with the force of it. My head smacks the floor with such a force that I'm left paralysed for a second. Lying at his feet, almost begging for help. How he likes things to be.

I can't fight back. I can't say anything or do anything to get him back. He knows perfectly well what he’s doing. I guess childhood feuds never fade. They never will.


	3. The man in the street

**1st September 2015**

** (John)**

He falls like he’s flying. The wind whips his coat behind him like wings, ready to carry him safely to the ground. But they don’t. I try to warn him- to call out to the falling figure and warn him about the ground below. I can’t. My voice is carried away by the wind; lost in the busy crowds of London. He can’t hear me. He keeps falling.

I try to shout his name- to throw it out like a lifeline in the vain hope that it will catch him. Of course, it can’t. He falls regardless. 

He twists and slices through the air, gaining speed the further he drops. 

“John? Why are you here? You shouldn’t be here.” His voice echoes in my head, drowning out all other noise. It’s as if I’m listening through earphones, but the only song I have is him. His voice. His smooth, calming, perfect voice. His body still falls in front of me. 

“How did you think I could love someone like you?” I try to cover my ears with my hands, but his voice gets louder. I don’t want to hear this. Not this. 

“You’re just as stupid as the rest of them. A crippled soldier sent home from the war- addicted to the danger only I can give you. I pity you, that’s all. I pity your dependence on me, but I could never love you.” I plead in my mind for him to stop. Please, Sherlock. Don’t tell me what I already know. These impossible truths that burden me. 

I know you never loved me, and that’s what kills me the most.

He still falls in front of me, spinning, faster and faster down towards the ground. Except the ground seems to be getting further and further away, so that his body seems to be falling in one fixed spot. Perpetually falling, yet never moving. 

“You’re just so ordinary. How could you think I could love someone so ordinary? Now, Moriarty was clever. He was interesting. Irene- well, she was the Woman. She had a spine. But you? You’re nothing” The last word is spat into my ear, ejected with so much menace that I can feel it shaking my bones. 

Words clog my throat: desperate to lash out- but they stay, clumped, unable to escape. Everything he says is right, and I know it. 

My fists clench by my sides, but I know that I won’t use them. I can’t. Inside I feel empty and hollow, as if a part of me has died. It fell off a rooftop with the man I loved. 

“You weren't even there for me when I needed you, and yet you claim to love me?.” As he speaks, his falling body finally reaches the ground, covering the concrete in a thick layer of sticky blood. It creeps towards me, pooling around my feet.

A sob wrenches itself from my body- wild and uncontrollable. I shake with the force of it. This fear is the worst. The regret that I wasn't there in his final moments. The thought that maybe, just maybe, I could have saved him. I could have talked him down. 

The tears drip down my face and fall to the floor, mixing with the blood crusting at my feet. They keep falling- pulling themselves from my body until I’m sure I have nothing left to give.

*******

I wake up with sweat running down my body like wet paint running down a wall. It’s just a dream- just a stupid dream. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not real. It never is. 

I glance over at the glowing digital clock on my bedside table: 4.00am. Right on time. Sighing, I reach my feet over the side of the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping Mary. She doesn’t wake up anymore for my nightmares. She used to; the jolt of me coming to was enough to wake her, but not anymore. She’s grown used to it; I haven’t. I don’t think I ever will.

Pulling on my dressing gown I slowly open the door and begin to walk downstairs. There is no way I’m going back to sleep. I’ve tried, the nightmares still come back. 

Each night it’s different, only slightly, but it’s different. He always dies though. Every time, he falls to his death from the edge of Bart’s, always bringing a part of me with him. That never changes. However, his message differs. Sometimes it’s words of hate; he tells me that he never loved me. Never could. Other nights, he tells me just as he hits the pavement that he loves me, that he always did. I’m not sure which is worse: to know he could never understand the weight of my truths, or knowing he understands completely but we missed our chance. 

The floorboards creak slightly underfoot. It’s a comforting sound, it lets me know that I’m awake now. I’m safe. No more falling Sherlock: back to reality. 

In the kitchen, I pull down a mug and fill the kettle to boil. I’m so used to the routine that I can do it without making a sound; only the slow bubbling of the kettle boiling takes away the rooms eeriness. I can hear Mary stirring slightly in her sleep; the only reaction to my early morning starts. 

Mary has helped me so much these last few years. Without her, I’m sure that I would have given up a long time ago. She saw a part of me that I had kept hidden for so long; the part of me that I thought only Sherlock could bring out. I guess I was wrong. 

There’s no chasing criminals up and down the streets of London, but I think that I could get used to this. Build a life with Mary, move on. Though, as much as I try to convince myself that I have, I’m still a long way off from moving on. What Sherlock did will forever haunt my dreams but I’d like to try and keep my waking moment's pain-free. I deserve that much, don’t I? 

The coffee burns my lips slightly as I take a sip. Good. I need to feel something, to remind myself that this is real; no-longer am I in some fake reality watching the death of my best friend. I need to feel safe. 

I walk over to the window, mug in hand, and look out onto the street below. Watching London in the early morning feels like a privilege only held by some. It’s so quiet, almost tranquil- the complete opposite of during the day. In these early hours, you can almost imagine that the city is sleeping. 

In times past, there were nights where we wouldn't return to the flat until gone this hour. Sleep hung from our shoulders, and we’d collapse into bed the minute we stepped inside. Often, I found myself wishing that it were the same bed- if only so I didn't have to trudge up the stairs each time. Mostly, I just wished I could feel his arms around my waist- pulling me closer to his chest; adrenaline fading from our veins. 

Something moves in the corner of my eye and I pull the curtain open wider to get a better view. It’s not unusual to see the occasional figure roaming the streets at this time, but it doesn't happen very often. I turn to see a shadow of a man walking quickly across the street, his head turned away from my perch. He’s dressed in a black coat; curled hair bobbing slightly as he walks. I sigh and repress the surge of hopefulness that swells in my stomach. It’s not him. It’s never him. Two years have passed, I remind myself. He really is gone. I will never again have those midnight chases or those pulse-raising fights beneath the stars. No-more cases, no-more Scotland yard- nothing. It died with him. And I miss it. Of course I miss it, it was my life. It was who I am. But I can’t be that man anymore. Not without him.

When he reaches the end of the street, the figure disappears into an ally and is swallowed by the darkness. London’s streets sleep once more.


	4. The weight of normalcy

**6th September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

The limp is back. Barely noticeable, I doubt even John has realised his shift in balance, but it’s back. Lack of danger I suspect. The same as last time. Oh, John. What have you been doing these past few years? Playing happy family with this Mary woman? Pretending to be perfectly happy fixing strangers at the surgery, whilst ignoring the gaping gash in your side that needs sewing back up? 

He looks so small; his whole body hunched together and stooped against the wind. The John here in front of me is the John that first walked into Bart’s all those years ago- wasting away under the weight of normalcy. 

I have to resist the urge to go over to him and take him home. Collect the broken pieces and glue them together again. I want to, I need to do something to help him, but I can’t. It’s not safe yet. Someone is still out there, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through John’s brain if they knew I was back. I won’t let that happen, not after all of this. As much as I want to go back to Baker Street, back to John, I can’t and it hurts so much. 

I didn’t think I could ever feel this much, let alone feel this much for one person. It’s not in my nature. Sociopath. Freak. Machine. I have been labelled many things by many different people, but ‘Love Interest’ isn’t one that had crossed my mind. I refuse to use the word boyfriend, it seems so vulgar; almost naked and innocent. Nothing about this is innocent. This isn’t some schoolboy crush on the boy next door, this is real. This is a part of me that I never believed would surface- that I didn’t even know existed- and I refuse to call it anything but what it is- love. I am in love with John Watson. That part is simple; to be honest, it’s the simplest part of my life presently. 

That may come as a shock to some people. ‘Sherlock Holmes can love!’ I can see next week’s headlines in bold. After ‘Return of suicide detective’ of course, that will come first. I mustn't get ahead of myself. 

But, as a prelude to their inevitably endless and shockingly predictable questions, yes- Sherlock Holmes can love. I prove that every day. I wish that I didn’t. Without this, my life would be so much easier- I could move on and not have to worry about the people I’ve left behind, the people I now have to protect because of my love for one man- one stupidly brilliant and caring man.

Yet, how could I ever give up him? Of course, if faced with the decision, I’d choose him every time. Especially now, carrying the knowledge that I am not alone in my sentiment.

John finally reaches the end of the street and unlocks the red door that leads to his apartment. Not 221B. Not yet. As he disappears through the doorframe, still hunched against the cold, I turn and begin to walk home. It’s beginning to hurt too much-being near him but not able to talk to him; to touch him.

As I turn the corner my phone begins to buzz in my pocket, gently vibrating against my leg. I let it ring for a while, before picking up. 

“What do you want?” 

“Lovely to speak to you too, brother dear.” Even on the phone, Mycroft is so incredibly dull- I’ve never met someone that can irritate and bore so much even when they aren’t in the room. It seems to be Mycroft's speciality.

“I simply called to check that you weren’t still fawning over John. I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate you watching him. I’m sure it’s not healthy.” 

“Piss off, Mycroft. You’re not my babysitter.” 

“Hmm. Well, sometimes I think you’re much in need of one.” 

“If you’ve just come here to insult me-“ I start, ready to hang up. It wouldn't be the first time. 

“There might be something I was meant to mention to you.” I stop in the middle of the pavement. This is it. I know it. I can finally do what I’ve needed to do for three years. I can go home. At last.

“What? Don’t play games with me Mycroft just tell me.”

He toys with me for a moment- I can hear the smirk on his face from here. He loves this- being in control. 

“We’ve got him.” Finally, the sentence I’ve been waiting to hear. I hang up, not bothering to listen to anything else Mycroft has to say. 

I can go home. I am finally free. 


	5. Déjà Vu

**7th September 2015**

**(Mary)**

John is standing by the window clutching a cup of coffee to his chest. At first, I hadn’t realised that he was still in the flat; his usual chair by the fireplace vacant, leaving me to assume that he had gone out for one of his rare morning walks. 

“Are you okay?” I ask, walking to stand beside him. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He continues to stare out of the window with a puzzled look as if he’s looking for something- or someone. Usually, in the morning, I come down to find him fighting sleep in his blue tartan armchair; coffee spilling over the edge of his mug and onto the slightly stained armrest. Today is unusual. He stands alert by the window, grasping the coffee mug as if it were a lifeline. 

John continues to ignore me as I turn to walk into the kitchen and pour myself a mug of coffee. It’s cold. Whilst I blast it in the microwave I turn to study John’s face again. Something is definitely wrong, he’s got that small stern frown on which only comes out when something is troubling him. Which, to be fair, is quite often these days. 

“Something’s up. What happened?” He doesn't answer for a few seconds but I don’t push. Eventually, he’ll tell me, he always does. It’s simply a game of patience. 

Glancing at the time, I pour my freshly warmed coffee into a travel mug, ready to take with me. John remains silent. 

“There was a man. In a coat.” John finally answers, glancing in my direction before turning back to the glass pane. His answer is short and concise as if those few words would explain everything. I remain silent, making it obvious that we are not on the same page. If he wants to tell me, he’s going to have to use more words. I need detail.

“Every morning since Tuesday the same man walks across the road, in front of our window, then into the alley across from Jill’s. Same time, every day, without fail.”

Interesting. John has found a new project to fixate on. Watching this mysterious man on his morning outings. Over the past few months, this kind of behaviour has become more and more the norm; John finds a new project to set his mind to, before inevitably getting bored and abandoning it. He’s restless, bored of his perfectly normal life. 

I’m not stupid, I know about his life before. Not the complete details, but I know that John led a life filled with danger. After all, he was a solider. He’s craving that once more, distracting himself with endless projects that will never be finished. 

He worries me. I’m scared that one day he’ll go out and do something stupid in his lust for adrenaline; for distraction. I know I’m not capable of giving him the life he needs, yet somehow I can’t seem to let him go. I still love him. And, in a way, he needs me. He needs someone around him that understands how he thinks, what he’s been through. Someone to ground him. 

I know he lost his friend. Three years ago his best friend killed himself and left John behind. We’ve never talked about it much, John never wanted to, but I know he still misses him. Of course he does. I don’t know his name, I only vaguely remember a news report about a detective who jumped off a roof, but I never really paid it much attention. I didn’t see the point of gawking at someone else's story- someone's life- if it was none of my business. Well, I guess I was wrong on that part. It became my business.

“He’s probably just on his way to work every morning.” I offer. John is trying to make this more than it is. He’s willing it to be some exciting adventure he can go and investigate.

“Maybe.” One word. That’s all I get.

“How come you are so hung up over it this morning?” I probe further, trying to understand where John’s brain is taking him. 

“He hasn’t been yet. I wanted to see him.” 

Ah. I see. Now he’s becoming more and more interested. A break in the routine; something to get excited about. 

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” I say, and John gives a noncommittal noise in response.

Glancing at my watch I decide that it’s probably time to start heading to work. 6.30 AM. The surgery opens at seven.

Skipping breakfast I gather the few things I need; my red knitted scarf; the small blue owl bag I use for work; and a travel mug filled with more coffee. Within minutes I have left John still hung up by the window and am out onto the street, watching my breath unfurl in front of me.

The street, as usual, is empty. Few cars pass as I stride briskly up the pavement. At this time of day, most sensible people are still in their beds, snug and warm beneath the safety of their sheets. I turn back to the window and wave. He doesn’t wave back. He’s too fascinated at the empty street below. 

Continuing down the road I head towards the station. The first stop on the journey to work. I usually walk this alone, with only my thoughts for company. John usually comes in later, when consults start. A few morning commuters walk past like ants; purposefully travelling in a straight line until they reach their destination. Programmed to keep walking, never once looking up at their surroundings. 

I reach into my bag to pull out my iPod. Music is my only companion on this daily journey. The opening notes to ‘oh, what a night’ begin to play in my ear. 

Suddenly I feel the force of someone walking into my shoulder. So engrossed in my thoughts I have neglected to pay attention to the path in front of me. How very typical. 

“Sorry.” We both turn at the same time and mutter our apologies, in typical British fashion. It’s a man, his face slightly covered by the collar of his coat.

There shouldn’t have been anything unusual about that encounter; we should have both said our apologies and moved on- walked our separate ways and never see each other again. This scenario happens thousands of times a day in London alone and no-one thinks twice about it. However this time, it didn’t quite go that way. I noticed his coat.

It wasn’t to say that he had a particularly unusual coat, any other time had I walked past the man in the street I wouldn’t have even noticed what he was wearing. But today, after the events of the morning, I did. I noticed it. 

He’s wearing a long dark coat that cuts off at about the knees. Black, and made out of that sturdy fabric that never seems to let rain through. Other than that, there isn’t much to it. But I recognise it; a niggling feeling in the back of my head that eats at my brain, giving me the strong feeling that I’d seen it before. “You know that coat.” It thought. 

Whilst I stand there staring, rather rudely, at the coat, the man gives me a small quick smile, then moves on his way, striding purposefully back down the street. He held up his half of the routine. 

Coming to my senses I turn and once again start down the pavement to the underground. I still have work. 

Nothing has changed. The pavement is still the same bleak grey, the buildings still seem half covered in shadows, fortifying the street. My breath still curls out in front of me. All is the same. Except now I have a strange feeling that I should know something. That I’ve forgotten something important.


	6. Lighthouse doors

**7th September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

The street seems to go on forever, like one never-ending corridor of darkness. Each building glares down at me, reminding me that I don’t belong. This isn’t my home anymore. I can’t roam the streets like the old days. Now, these grey roads belong to the criminals; the intoxicated party-goers; the young lovers; the black taxis, hunting in the crowds. I don’t fit in here anymore. There is no place for Holmes’ and Watson’s. We’ve been over-ruled; voted out. 

So wrapped up in my thoughts I don’t notice the woman walking towards me. We collide: shoulders bumping, heads turning. Mary. She looks tired, dark bags hang under her eyes, clumsily covered with a thin layer of make-up.

“Sorry,” I mumble an apology then turn around, not wanting to look at her any longer, knowing that I am at least partially responsible for the way her life turned out. Caring for a broken man. Loving someone who is in love with another. 

I shouldn’t feel this way, there was nothing I could do, I had to protect John. John is all I cared about. Is still the only thing I care about. Still, it seems unfair. Well, Mary, I’m coming. I’ll give you your life back. Let me take the man you’ve been caring for. It’s my turn. 

I can feel her eyes burning into my neck. For a minute I panic; she must recognise me. However, after a second I feel her turn and carry on walking away, without speaking a single word. Risking a glance behind me, I can see that she doesn’t know who I am. Or at least, doesn’t care. 

At the end of the street is a door. Many doors are lining the streets of London, but this is a very specific door. Behind it lies my past, my future. That door holds everything I need. Bright red, it shines in the semi-darkness like a lantern in the night. It’s my beacon of hope, the lighthouse preventing me from crashing into the rocks. Red paint shining so bright, leading me to shore. 

Every step I take brings me closer to my light. The street seems to brighten as I approach it; a light orange haze breaking through the soft filter of clouds. Almost there.

The moment I have been waiting for all these years is here. I made it. I’m home. The door is less than ten metres away. My future is right there in front of me, finally a tangible thing. Five metres. Soon, I can take John into my arms and assure him that I’m here, and I’m never leaving again. Never. God knows neither of us could survive these three years over again. 

He’s standing in the window, watching the street below. He hasn’t seen me, he’s staring down the other end of the street at some non-existent point. He doesn’t know I’m here. Good. 

Suddenly the door is in front of me. Suddenly I’ve reached the end of my path; I have no further to go. This is it. End of the line. Beginning of the journey. 

I knock three times.

There’s movement in the flat. I can hear John shuffling down the stairs. His keys clink as they insert into the lock swaying gently into each other. I want to run. I feel un-explainable panic rising in my throat, and the urge to run as far as I can washes over me. I can’t do this. It’s been too long. I don’t know what I’ll say to him, how to tell him. Because he doesn’t know. 

All this time, I have been thinking and planning as if he knows everything. As if there is a mini John in my head examining all my thoughts, telling me what to do. He’s left. There’s an empty space where my mini John used to sit, and I can feel it like a lead weight in my head. He doesn’t know. The real John doesn’t understand why I left, how I feel- nothing. I have to tell him. It terrifies me. Makes me want to sprint away and hide somewhere he will never find me. I can’t do this.

Too late. You’re going to have to.

The door slowly swings open; John’s body filling the gap, blocking the light and causing his perfect shadow to fall over me.

“Hello? What do you-” He stops. He stares. He falls apart. 

I can see it in his face. John’s never been good at hiding his emotions. Most of the time, I love that. I love that I can read him like a book; know what he’s thinking. Not today though. Today, I think it might kill me. 

We stand for at least five minutes like this. Him just staring at me in some sort of trance. I just stand there. I can’t move. He looks like death. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears. I made him like this. This is my fault. 

I can’t stand it any longer. I need to tell him something. Anything; just to break the silence. I need to talk to him. I want to know him again.

“John-” The red door slams shut in my face. 


	7. Harrison

**3rd August 2015**

**(Mycroft)**

Three knocks echo through the room, bouncing off all the walls and chasing each other through the air.

"Come in."

My office door swings open on its noiseless hinges, and Harrison stands in the gap in front of me, holding a rather large pile of folders to his chest.

"Sir, the information you requested."

"Oh yes. Thank you, Harrison. Please, could you place them on my desk?"

He walks over, depositing the mountain of paper onto the desk in front of me, stumbling slightly with the weight. A large brown folder balances precariously on top of the pile; threatening to tip and slew its contents over the carpet. 

"You need some new shoes, Harrison. Your left hallux is rubbing the edge of the leather. I think it's time for a wider pair."

Smiling, he looks up at me. My little 'tricks' never cease to amuse him. Most people find it annoying; having their every move scrutinized and deduced to an inch of its metaphorical life. Not Harrison.

"Very well Sir. I shall look into it." He walks back over to the door but pauses when he reaches the frame. Leaning his slender body on the doorframe, he twists his head slightly in my direction, turning to face me. A smile still adjourns his lips. It is contagious. Not many people can do that. Make me smile. The only other person I can name is my dear brother, and recently he hasn't been around to do so. 

"Will that be all Sir?" He looks at me with the expression of a lost puppy; waiting for instructions from its master. Obedient. How people should be.

"No. I'd like you to get all the information we have on Colonel Sebastian Moran. All the digital information can be e-mailed over, all paper copies should be placed in my safe. Got that?"

"Yes, Sir. Right away Sir." With that, he pushes delicately away from the door, turning and walking off down the hallway behind him.

Sebastian Moran. Last known sighting, three years ago on the rooftops of London. If I am correct, which I always am, it was the one adjacent to Saint Bartholomew's.

Sebastian Moran. Escaped arrest and hasn't been seen since that date. A warrant for his arrest still stands worldwide.

Sebastian Moran. The fourth sniper.

Sherlock wanted me to find him. Dispose of him. I tried. I did. He's nowhere to be found. Last reports show a man of his description found dead in Peru; chances of finding him alive are slim. Even with my best men on the trail.

Sherlock can't know that. Unless Moran is gone, Sherlock won't go back to John. He won't want to put him in danger. That’s why he can't know. John needs him as much as Sherlock needs John, just the past few days have shown that. Sherlock can’t leave John alone, and John looks like death got up on the wrong side of the bed. They need each other. Even I can see that.

I pick up the phone. I dial the number. Sherlock needs to believe he is safe. Then he can go home.


	8. Wounds

**7th September 2015**

**(John)**

He’s here. He’s actually here. My brain is whizzing around me trying to comprehend the fact that he is back, on the other side of my front door. 

Part of me doesn’t want him to be.

I slide down the door, the panels digging into my back, catching on my spine. Jolts of pain shoot down my nerves, reminding me that I am alive. This isn’t a dream. This isn’t fantasy. This is real. 

A pounding on the door causes tremors up my back. Constant thumps that cause echoes to fill the small hallway. I can hear them in my ears; calling to me. Willing me to open the door, to let this man in. I can’t.

“John! John, I need to see you. I need to talk to you. Please. Let me see you.” Sherlock’s desperate voice seeps through the cracks in the door, pooling around me; warm like blood from a wound. My breath is heavy and laboured. Each inhalation takes so much effort, I feel as if each breath might rip out my lungs; tear them from my chest and send them pulsing out of my body, onto the hall floor below me. 

“JOHN!” His pounding continues. The desperation in his voice cracking the windows, sending hot sharp glass raining down on me. It shreds my skin, fills my soul with pain and longing. 

I try to will myself to say something. I need to speak out to him; scream and shout about how much of an idiot he is, how he should just leave and never come back. I can’t. My throat clams up, dry- emptied by his presence. For once in my life, I feel powerless against him. Nothing to say, nowhere to go.

The pounding stops. I can hear him breathing, his hot breath tickling the painted wood. 

“John.” A single word whispered into the void. Captured by the broken man on the other side. 

I can hear him falling to the floor, kneeling with his head pressed against the glass window. His broken image is in the corner of my eye; I turn to face him through the translucent glass. 

“John. Please. I need to talk to you.” His voice is slightly muffled against the glass, but I can still hear the panic in it, clear as day. 

“Then talk.” That makes him sit straight. One hand still pressed against the glass, he sits upright, pulling his body closer to the barrier between us. 

“I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but it’s the only word that even begins to fit what I want to say. The whole of the English language John, and the only word that even works is sorry. How’s that for language evolution?” I can almost feel him smirk from behind the door. Not good Sherlock, not good. You never were good with timings. 

“It had to be like this. If I hadn’t died, Moriarty would have killed you. He had snipers trained on you. I couldn’t-” He takes a deep breath, as if he is trying to suppress himself. Keep himself in a box that’s slowly overflowing. Let it out Sherlock, just let it out. I want to hear you, the true you, not some pre-prepared speech. That brings me no comfort.

“I couldn’t watch you die. I just couldn’t.” So you let me watch you? Is that how it works? 

“John, after the funeral- I was there and I-” His ragged breaths falter and break, pushing against the barrier. Trying to break free. 

“I heard you. That day- I heard you. What you told me.” Freeze. Those words, they were for me more than anything. He was never supposed to hear them. Yet, in a way, I guess he was. It was my promise; come home and I’ll love you. Please, let me love you.

“I heard you. I was always scared you would leave me if I said anything but-“ He takes a shuddering breath and seems to gather his strength. “John Watson, I am and have always been hopelessly in love with you.” 

The world stops. I swear in that moment everything stops; our spinning ball of rock freezes in space; all the rushing people in the world slow to a halt; my breathing ceases completely. It can’t be.

It seems impossible. The many speeches and lectures about love being ‘a chemical defect’, all from the very same man. What happened to you, Sherlock? Why the change of heart? 

Slowly, I catch my breath and begin to stand. This changes things. I need to see him. I need to find out how true this is. Please, Sherlock, don’t play games with me. I don’t think I can handle any more of your games. 

Using the door as support, I follow the gap in the wood up to the catch. There is a soft click as it opens, revealing Sherlock, collapsed on the floor in front of it. At the sound of the hinges, he looks up. His face looks as if someone has tipped the Thames all over it; covered in streaks of moisture. He stands to meet me, although he seems unsure what to do with himself, like a teenager on their first date. 

I stand for a moment, just drinking him in. Watching as he lets me look at him- truly look at him. Underneath the surface I can see the emotion bottled up inside of him, stuff left over from years of suppressing it; pilling more on top, ignoring the emotion that threatened to show. 

Here, right now, I can see more of him than I have ever known, without saying a single word. Sherlock stands naked in front of me; his entire being is stripped of its usual defences, here on display for my viewing. It’s terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. 

“Well, you should probably come in then.”


	9. Mistletoe

**8th September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

221B Baker Street.

I stand in the doorway, looking into the abandoned living room. Golden light filters through the dust-filled curtains, filling the air with dancing motes of ageing dust. The room feels empty and baron, devoid of the usual quiet energy that lines the walls, ready to pick up at a moments notice. Now, it is empty.

Slowly I take a step forward. The floorboards creak under my weight, unused to the strain of everyday life. Another step. Another creak.

It's so peaceful. For once the room is so still and calm, that it's hard to believe what happened between these walls: the sword fights; the midnight clients; the man that fell from a window. All here. In this one room.

Now, it seems like nothing ever happened. That the room has always been a silent place of calm, with the motes just floating along in a peaceful existence. Just being.

John's coat hangs on the doorframe. Running along the back is a tear about as wide as my hand, the soft padding of the coat puffing out in all directions, like an albino hedgehog.

Our research still lies in piles around the room, covered in a layer of age and neglect. He hasn't been back. Since that day John Watson hasn't stepped a foot in Baker street. The flat has been abandoned; left to rot- forgotten by the people who kept this room alive, its heart beating and pulsing. Now, it's dead. It may never even have the chance to become alive again.

The staircase creaks behind me- someone has started to ascend the stairs. Silently, I reach out to the counter and take the nearest object into my hand- a small rectangular book with frayed corners. The edges are soft from many hands running through the pages; numbing the paper, matting stories together. Slowly I draw my arm back, ready to strike out at the intruder.

The door swings noisily on its hinges to reveal Mrs Hudson, her hands carrying a large tray of tea. Not an intruder. Just the familiar face of a friend. Perhaps the only one left. I really have been away too long. 

"Oh put that down, it's me. Here, be a dear and help me would you?" She bustles through the door frame and passes me the tray. I take it and quickly place it on the table by the window- book still in hand.

"Look at all the dust... I'm sorry about the mess I just couldn't bring myself-" She pauses, staring through the room, as if some secret lies beyond, waiting to be discovered. It's like she can see into the past, through the papered wall into the living room of happier times; John and I sitting drunk in our chairs, sticky note labels attached to our foreheads, clinging to sweat; the first of many Christmas parties, wine stains over the floor like pools of blood; the almost kiss in the mistletoe door frame.

It was the last Christmas. I'd hung a lone branch in the empty space, out of place among the rest of the flat. Everyone had gone home for the night; only John and I remained. We met under the door frame, pausing for a brief second under the pearl berries. For a moment, one small fragment of a moment I could swear he leant in slightly. Our eyes were suspended in perpetual motion, staring through all of the disguises, the scars and the screens, through our flesh and into our very souls. At that moment I could see him more clearly than I ever had before, the damage that was buried between the layers of John. For the first time, I could see him.

We stood in that gap for what must have been only a few seconds, but they felt like an eternity. I stared into him and he stared into me before we both continued with our lives. Like normal. Like nothing ever passed between us. I had to compose myself by the sink before I could face him again. To become so close, not just physically- it tore me apart.

"Well anyway. I'll get cleaning. You boys will want to be back soon! Oh, it will be lovely having you two together again." Mrs Hudson snaps me back into reality. She screamed, when she saw me. Actually screamed. I didn't know people did that. 

"Oh no, I'll help you. Just tell me where to start." She looks at me as if I'd suddenly grown antlers.

"Sherlock Holmes? Did you just offer to help? You really have changed." Her small grin almost brings mine to the surface. Good old Mrs Hudson. I don't know how I managed without her. Well, there is a simple answer to that; I didn’t.

"Oh, but Sherlock, it is good to have you back." Here I see it. The mother I wished I'd always had. Oh, my mother was adequate alright, she cared for me as much as anyone could, but it was always the others who held her attention the most. It was always Mycroft whom she held in high regard. Not William. Not poor little William who didn't understand why the other boys wouldn't play with him. Not the one who needed her the most.

Mrs Hudson was the one who cried when I knocked on her door, well, after she’d finished screaming. It was her who embraced me and even welcomed me back, even after everything I had done to her. Mrs Hudson, who gave me a cup of tea and welcomed me like a son, instead of the woman who didn't even attend my funeral. The woman who sat in silence when I found her (under Mycroft's insistence) counting down the minutes until she could leave. 

I can never call her my mother.

"Thank you. For letting me come back." I mutter it across the room, as if I am afraid to let it out.

"Don't be silly. I'm not going to chuck you out of your own flat. This room will always be for my boys." She turns away and starts busying herself with the pillows on the chairs, hiding her face. She's crying. I know I should probably go over to her, comfort her, but I can't. I don't know how. 

Suddenly I am aware that I'm still holding the book in my hand. I look down, turning it over slowly in my hand. It's covered in dust and grime, but I can still make out the title.

_London A-Z_

It hits me like a bullet. The events of the week suddenly crash down on me, and I can't hold it back any longer. I drop the book to the floor and run back out of the door. What was I thinking? I can't stay here. Not without him. Why did I ever think I was capable of that?

I descend the stairs three at a time, going as fast as I can out of the flat. I need to be alone. I need to get away from everyone. Two years of being alone, and I would have thought I'd be sick of it. Turns out I can't live without it.

As I race outside and off down the street, I can imagine the scene behind me. Mrs Hudson will be staring out the window, tears running down her face, wondering when she will next see her son.


	10. Life as we know it

**7th September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

We stand in stony silence. Staring. Watching.

Every so often he glances around the hall then back at me, as if he is searching for something to say. Almost as if he is using a mind palace, but this is John. Of course he isn't. I tried once, to make him create one, but he wouldn't. Said mind palaces were for 'drama queens' and continued with whatever he was doing.

Neither of us can think of what to say. Well, more probable is that no-one wants to say anything. Not yet. Not like this.

His flat is immaculate. Everything is in its place; nothing left discarded out on counters or tabletops. Nothing like the usual clutter of Baker Street. It's unnerving. It's too... ordinary. Not like John. The place reeks of Mary, her fingerprints are everywhere; on the alphabetically arranged bookcase; the scented candles on every surface; the cat sculptures on the mantle. The only touch of John I can see is the small desk by the window, where his laptop lies open, surrounded by papers and books; cluttered and messy. The only part of the flat that looks like home.

I follow him through the spotless hallway and into the living room, resisting the urge to take his arm and help him through. Now so more than ever his limp is evident; he stumbles every so often without the aid of his crutch. I can't see any signs of it inside the flat; there are no marks in the carpet that a crutch like that would bring, and it isn't inside the living room. He mustn't have brought it back.

He drops himself into one of the chairs that sit in the middle of the room. It's back is high and arched, with golden trim surrounding the edge. Gruffly he gestures to another chair opposite, a light green one with a velvet seat. Mary certainly has good taste.

I perch on the edge- not wanting to get too comfortable- studying John's face. He doesn't look away.

Up close, he looks even worse. His cheeks are sharp and piercing against the skin, hollowed out between the bones. His eyes are sunken into his skull, currently he looks more like a Halloween decoration than a man. Nothing like the John I left behind. Of course not, I've been gone.

His hands look like skeletons. They grip the chair with such ferocity that I think the bones may split through the skin; leaving angry red marks all over his hands. It's evident he hasn't been eating properly. His PTSD may have returned. I can't be certain, but an eating disorder is often linked with the symptoms. Certainly in John's case.

"What are we doing?” His voice his hoarse and scratchy, as if he's holding back tears. It's okay John. You can cry. Hell, I've cried more times than I can remember. It helps with the pain. But you always were one to follow social traditions, weren't you John?

The question hangs in the air like mist. I don't know. That's scary. I don't know what I'm meant to say. Please, John, help me. Tell me what to do. I can't survive on my own.

"I- I don't know.”

He looks into my eyes. 'Windows to the soul' they're called. Before I had never really had an opinion about the statement. Never bothered to find one, but I can say I agree. Eyes tell you more about a person than any other part of their anatomy. You can't pretend with your eyes. They have a mind of their own. Often, on a case, you can tell if a grieving relative is actually sad or whether they are pretending, just from a glance at their eyes. In John's, I can see his pain. This is him; stripped back and bare. No acting here. 

"You really don't do you.”

No John. I don't. Please believe me.

A small smile tickles the corner of his mouth before it slumps back into its neutral position. No smiling here. Not the right time. And you said I had trouble.

"No. I don’t."

I'm searching for words. I don't know what to do. Every logical reaction to the situation seems too... scary. I can't admit that. Not yet. Not now.

I would lean over and kiss him. Softly, not too harsh, just when he's not expecting it. My heart, it seems, longs for that. To just take him by the waist and steer our mouths into other activities than simply... talking. But I can't. That would be... not good. Not good at all.

The most logical solution would be to keep talking. To tell him everything. But I can't do that. Not now. I'm not ready. I need to say something. For once, I can't find the words.

"Why?" He surprises me. Why John? Because it's you. It's always been you. Nothing else matters; nothing else will ever matter to me more than you. The work... Well. Just the work. I'm not really any more than that. My whole purpose can be summed up in a single word, until now. Now it's more than that. I have something to live for.

"Why? I don't understand.”

"Why now. After 3 years. Why now?”

"Because your life was at risk John. Moriarty had snipers aimed at you... You know all this.”

Surely he can't have forgotten so soon? John, you were meant to be the smarter one. The dolphin amongst goldfish.

"I know. I know that. I meant- why now. What's changed?”

I pause for a moment.

"I couldn't stay away from you." Even I surprise myself this time. I didn't know I would say that. I was meant to tell him that the network was gone, I had finished the purpose I set out with. Now, all that was left was to come home. To him. Yet, my mouth says something completely different. 

John's expression doesn't change. He glances down for a second then back up, placing his head in his hands. He says something but it's lost against skin- muffled by his hands.

“Sorry?"

"I said, that doesn't answer the question.”

“Moriarty’s network is gone. I dismantled it. That’s why I- That’s why I left. I’ve come home.”

Silence. I can't fill it. I want to, just to fill the gap that's forming between us. I can't guess what he's going to say anymore. I don't know what he's thinking in that brilliant brain of his. 

He stands up, his head still cradled in one hand. I don't move. 

"What am I meant to do? What do you expect me to do?" He takes his hand from his face. 

"You've been gone, Sherlock. You've been gone for three years!" He stands up and starts pacing around the room, taking small steps with each breath. Deliberately avoiding my eye. 

"I have Mary." John pauses, unsure of his next line of defence. I know. John. Don't you think I can see that? She's all over your flat for God’s sake. I can't not notice it. 

He glances over at me, gauging my reaction- judging whether or not he need explain further. He doesn't. Something about my face tells him that I know. I know who she is. I know who you've replaced me with. 

"You just walk in here and- I don't know what you want me to do. You obviously don't." 

Finally, he looks me in the eye. He stops walking and turns to me, his eyes full of anger. Please, John. Please stop before you ruin us. This look. I've seen it before. At St Bart’s, just before you walked out the door. You called me a machine John. Don't do that again. Words hurt- you should know that. Just welcome me back. I never wanted this.

"I can't leave. I can't leave this and come back to Baker Street. I can't pretend that nothing ever happened, that you weren't gone for three years. I can't do that.” His voice is breaking, dissipating into the space between us. He’s right. I’m expecting a lot, but at the same time, I wouldn't expect anything less. John needs the life that we shared together. It keeps him from falling apart.

"I apologise. I understand that I have caused you pain-“

"More than that. I thought you were DEAD Sherlock! DEAD! Do you know how that feels? To see the person you love-" He can't take it anymore. He almost collapses to the floor, his legs giving way under the weight of all his emotions. The chair beside him is the only thing keeping him up- one of those spindly little hands grasping to it for dear life, the other clutching his face.

"We can go back. You can move back into Baker Street. Together solving crimes again. We can do it.”

"No, we can't! You can't just walk in here and expect me to give you the world. That's not how it works. I have Mary now. Not you. Her. She's been here for all the times you weren't- and that's what I need right now. Someone to be here." I can be here John. I will be here. If it just means we can go back to the way things were. Nothing extra. Just us. That's all I need. 

"You have this romantic notion that this can work. That we can run away together and never look back. Well, we can't. It's not like that."

I burst up from the chair. I can't contain myself any longer; John needs to understand. He needs to know the truth.

"You think I want this? Do you think I want to feel this way? If I could switch it off right now, just for a second then I would. In a heartbeat. Because I hate this. I HATE it." I take a breath, rallying myself up for the next blow. the next attack.

"I hate the fact I can't live without you. I'm meant to be the one with no emotions. I'm not meant to be able to feel all this. But I can. I do. I feel this more powerfully than I could have ever imagined. And I hate it.” I pause, “I also desperately need it.”

It was never meant to be like this. You were never meant to know all this. How much I am frightened of what I feel. How I wish that I could turn it off. Go back to the way things were before I fell in love with my best friend; if I can even call you that anymore.

"So please John. Either tell me again or let me leave. For good. Because I can't do this again. I can't. I hate this. I HATE IT." The wall scrapes at my hand as I lash out at it, leaving red blood oozing from tears in my skin. It feels good. My anger seeps out with the blood, leaving me clean. Then, I hear the voice. 

“Leave."

It feels like my chest plummets to the floor. No. NO John. Don't... please don’t...

"Leave and don't come back. If you hate this so much then go. I won't chase after you.”

I turn and look at him. His face is resolute. He means it. I can't come back.

The door slams shut as I leave. The street has changed. The houses now stare down at me, hissing their scorns and insults. I keep walking. Away from the houses and their words, away from the red doored flat at the end of the street. Away from the man inside.

Away from my life as I know it.


	11. Comfortably numb

**7th September 2015**

**(John)**

He's gone. Out the door, away into the busy evening streets. I don't know where he'll go. Presumably, he'll walk back to Baker Street, greet Mrs Hudson and make his way from there. Perhaps he'll start working for the force again, or maybe only take his own cases for now. I haven't the faintest idea. I don't know him anymore. He's changed.

I sit down into the safety of the armchair. The cushions hug me; they mould around my body, drawing me down. I sit in the comfort of the chair for a while. Just breathing in the familiar scent of pine and vanilla that drifts through the air; Mary must have replaced the air fresheners again.

I just sit in silence. Not thinking, not doing anything at all. Just being. Just breathing. Just existing in this moment before I have to turn and face the truth. The thing that I know but my mind won't let me admit. 

Silence falls. The gentle busyness of the street outside fades into nothingness; my brain stops registering that there is noise. The flat just sits still as it always has. Silence just falls down like rain, coating the floor and furniture with thick droplets of nothingness. It's as if someone has clicked the mute button on the remote; cut out the volume from the picture. 

My mind holds the same kind of muteness. Nothingness. I don't think I just breathe; exist; sit. 

I watch as the sun falls through the sky, sinking lower until the soft rays of light that filter through the window turn from a bright yellow to dark orange, filling the flat with shadows of things that are; leaving my mind full of shadows that could have been. It gets darker, but I don't bother to get up and flick the lights. I don't bother to do anything at all.

Around five o'clock the world is un-muted. Suddenly sound is restored, all at once, as if it had never left at all. The street outside drifts through the open window; cars beeping, people talking, children screaming. Across the opposite wall the clock chimes the hour- five lost bells echoing through the flat. I realise I've been sat here alone for an entire day. Not doing anything, just existing. I had work today-I missed it. Mary will be home in an hour. 

Mary. How do I tell Mary? She’s never even met the man and I am meant to reassure her that he won’t be around anymore? No. I think I must resign myself to the fact that she can’t know. She can’t know about- us. If we even are an us anymore. I don’t know. We certainly aren’t going to become the us I want to be. Don’t get me wrong, I still want that. More than anything, I would love to blindly follow him back to Baker street- to resume my role as the faithful blogger. To never look back. But I can’t. I’m longing for the us of the past- one that died long ago. He’s not the man I thought he was. 

Numbly I get up, feeling for the end of the armrests for support. Slowly, I shuffle over to the kitchen, holding onto the walls and furniture around me for balance. Sitting so long has caused my muscles to seize up. I’m wobbly but I make it, still numb through my body, not feeling anything. It’s as if someone has drawn a cotton wool blanket over me; padding me down, protecting me from the harm of emotion. 

Into the kitchen. I’m not quite sure where I’m trying to go, but I know I need to move. My feet shuffle forward slowly, trying to take my weight without the help of my legs. 

Suddenly they give way. One hand still clutching the counter, my knees collapse and send me tumbling to the floor. My head smacks into the sideboard, sending deathly waves of pain washing through my head. My legs have tangled up in the landing, but I don't bother to untangle them. I just stay collapsed on the floor. Relaxing my hand, I let it fall back down to me. 

It is then that it all hits me. Everything that he put me through, everything that has been said, the mixed emotions at his return; they all hit me like a cannonball. At first, only a single tear drips from my eyes down to my cheeks, but soon there are rivers. I gasp for breath, choking in the racking sobs that are bursting from me- overflowing from years of squashing them down. 

I can’t stop myself. I just sit on the cold kitchen floor and watch myself fall to pieces. Each breath brings a new part of me to the surface; a new feeling that rips my insides to shreds and burns my skin. He’s back. Isn’t this what I wanted? All this time, all I ever longed for was for him to come back. For us to become Sherlock and John again- the crime-solving duo. I hadn’t even considered the fact that there could be an us- that we could be together in any form vaguely romantic. I wasn’t prepared for this.

My life bleeds out in front of me- dripping down my chin and pooling on the floor. Is this what I am reduced to? One visit from him and this is what I turn into? An open wound bleeding memories onto the cold tile? 

At some point, I cry myself to sleep. My brain shuts down completely and begins to recharge; repairing itself from the trauma of the day. The sleep is dreamless, but at some point I am conscious of arms pulling at mine, scooping under my legs and lifting me up. I don't open my eyes. Soft sheets surround me as I am lowered into a bed- the mattress sagging slightly under my weight. Somewhere around me, a voice swims softly across the room. It’s gentle and soothing to the ears; patching up the wounds with bandages. I can’t identify it.

The duvet covers are pulled over me, and it’s not long until sleep engulfs me once again. The last thing I feel before I return to nothingness is the feel on a pair of lips on my forehead, gently kissing me into the land of the sleep.


	12. Coffee Cups

**8th September 2015**

**(John)**

We're dancing. His left-hand rests softly on my waist, the right is entwined with my own. He has a gentle grip, holding me as if I could break at any moment. We don't speak, but let the music carry our feet through the room, saying more words than our mouths ever could. His eyes are bright blue and searching; staring into me as if I were a book he could read. I wonder what my pages are saying. What is Sherlock Holmes finding so fascinating about this book of mine? 

"What are you thinking?" I ask, slowing slightly so I can focus on his face. He is flawless in everything; the curves and edges of his features; each minuscule tremor of his body; every strand of hair on his head.

"I'm thinking that you are worrying about something" His voice flows so smoothly- he barely opening his mouth to speak, yet I can hear every syllable clearly. 

"What would I be worried about?" It’s a genuine question; the moment feels so perfect I can’t see anything that should be bothering me. Trivial everyday matters were cast from my mind the moment he arrived, although it feels like we’ve been dancing forever.

"Mary" 

Oh. Her. The thorn to our roses.

"Why should I worry about her? She's not here." I smile slightly in an effort to tell him that it’s okay, that she will never find out, he doesn't have to worry about her. It doesn't fool him. Never does.

His eyes never move from my own, never even glancing down to check his footing. Flawless. 

Our dance picks up pace. My feet begin to move impossibly fast; our bodies moving through the air with such grace and precision that it feels like we're flying. All I can feel is the warmth of his eyes and the heat of his figure against me, everything else seems to fall away into the room around us.

His grip on my waist tightens, becoming more urgent. An arm snakes around my back and pulls me nearer, towards the perfect face that is coming closer…

“She’s here. She knows." 

Suddenly we are falling, our legs suddenly succumbing to the laws of physics, making us tumble to the floor. His eyes never once move, and his face leans in further. Gathering his intentions, I lift my head to meet him halfway...

*******

I wake in a tangle of sheets. The pillows lay strewn across the floor, knocked from the bed in my dreaming frenzy. 

I close my eyes, willing myself to return to the dream, but I can't. It's gone. The moment has passed and I'm stuck here in the land of the living. Still hoping, I count to ten before I finally untangle myself from the mess and make my way into the shower. 

The water beats into my back. I just stand there, leaning against the shower door, letting the water turn cold as it rains down on my naked back. Usually, it's soothing, knowing that what I am seeing and feeling is real. I'm not dreaming anymore. However, today the water is only a bitter reminder that I can't live in my dream. The world I inhabit is the nightmare and sleep holds bliss just out of my reach. 

That's when I realise. For the first time since Sherlock died, I haven't had nightmares. 

Hastily turning off the water I scramble out of the shower to the window, throwing it open to discover that the world outside is bright and yellow. A cold breeze blows in through the open space and strokes my skin as if to say 'welcome to the day'. The sun is high in the sky and shines down with gentle warmth and a note of frostiness, the way that only a winter sun can. 

Leaving the window open I walk briskly back into the bedroom, throwing on whatever clothes I can find. I'm halfway to the door when I realise that I'm wearing Mary's socks. I leave them on. 

"Morning! Or should I say afternoon." Mary is waiting for me in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and leaning back on the grey counter. She's dressed in a stretchy purple top stained with paint drops and jeans torn at the edges- obviously not her work clothes. 

"What time is it?" 

"One o'clock dear. Don't worry I called ahead to your work and told them you were taking the day off sick, thought I would let you lie in." 

"One o'clock?!" 

She smiles her cheeky little smirk at me, before taking a sip of her coffee. 

"One o'clock?! I never sleep in... let alone until one..." 

"Come on, sit down. I’ll fix you some breakfast." She places her mug down on the counter and turns to the fridge, pulling out various packets of sausages, bacon and other breakfast ingredients. 

I do as she says and sit myself down at the counter, watching her as she works. I'm beginning to remember why I fell for her. 

"Scrambled or fried?" 

"Scrambled" She doesn't turn as I answer, but keeps herself busy at the stove. For once, I don't argue and just let her cook for me. Today seems to be the day of change, might as well continue the pattern. Steer into the skid.

Before long a hot steaming plate is set in front of me, and I tuck in. It scorches my throat but I ignore it, scooping forkful after forkful into my mouth and into my stomach. It has been a while since I’ve had a proper cooked breakfast like this. 

Mary talks whilst I eat. Addressing no one in particular she begins to chat away to herself, knowing that I wouldn't and couldn't reply to anything she says. She's used to it by now.

"I've got the whole day off, I thought we could get round to putting up those shelves we bought ages ago, though of course we don't have to if you're not up to it, only I can't do it by myself..."

As I finish she takes my plate and places it in the sink, passing me a piece of kitchen roll to wipe up the mess I’ve made. 

"That sounds lovely" I need to get Sherlock out of my system and spend the day doing something of use. I feel motivated to move mountains, but the shelving will have to do. 

"What's got you all ready and raring? Makes a change. You were completely out of it when I came home, you must have had a busy day." Busy? Well, I wouldn't exactly call it that but it certainly had its moments... 

"Yeah. Pretty full day yesterday. Oh and thanks for putting me to bed" I start to rise and walk towards the living room.

"I didn't. You were in bed when I got home." 

I turn. she looks confused, and the coffee mug hovers halfway to her lips, forgotten in the moment. 

"Oh. I must have gotten myself into bed. Too tired to remember I guess." I walk away from her and over to the window. I know for certain that I didn't put myself to bed last night. The last thing I remember was collapsing to the kitchen floor, then someone lifting me into bed. I definitely couldn't have done that myself. And then there was that goodnight kiss...

Outside the streets are full of people, all going about their daily business as if everything was perfectly ordinary. Maybe for them it is. Maybe it isn’t- perhaps today is the day where their lives are being turned upside down too. Who knows. 


	13. Shadow Chaser

**18th September 2015**

**(Mycroft)**

"Sir? Mr Holmes??" 

Harrison's voice accompanies a soft knock on the door; three taps with the back of his knuckle.

"What is it?" I look up from the mountains of files in front of me. 

"Oh. Harrison. Hello. I didn't know you were still here." Glancing at the clock on the far wall I notice the time for the first time this evening. Nine thirty-five. Harrison's shift should have ended hours ago.

"I was arranging the surveillance on Sherlock Holmes sir. I thought I should check to see how you were doing before I left." He shifts slightly in the doorway, resting his left hand slightly higher on the frame. My office is kept dark in the evenings, so the light from the corridor pours past him, casting a faint shadow on the floor in front of him.

"Thank you. I'm just making my way through the Moran files. It's as if he just disappeared after 2012. There are no traces of him from December onwards." I place my hands on my temples and gently massage them. Reading these files over and over again is giving me a headache.

Harrison takes a tentative step forward into my office, his hand still resting on the doorframe. "What about the killings of that year?"

"Our men and women on the force at the time had Moran as the prime suspect, they fitted his MO to begin with. He became a secondary suspect after the later murders. They were too messy, too violent for him."

Seven bodies had been found during 2012, all shot twice; once in the head and once in the neck. No solid connection had been made between the victims, but all had been in trouble with the law earlier in their lives.

"But what if he changed MO to throw off the police?"

"No, he's clever. They all had the same pattern but some were heavily tortured beforehand. Moran would take pride knowing that we can't catch him. He likes to let us know when he's beaten us. He wouldn't change MO because of that."

"Yes..." For a second I think I see a faint smile pass across Harrison's face, but it's gone so quickly I can't be sure. It must have been a trick of the darkness.

"So it looks like he killed off anyone who had worked with him and he then went into hiding?"

"It looks like it. There's just no evidence anywhere!" I slam my hand on the desk and lean back in my chair, frustrated by all the shadow chasing. As long as Moran doesn't know Sherlock is alive, he is safe. As soon as Sherlocks story becomes public, which, knowing him, will be soon, the danger will start. Who knows what Moran will do then.

Harrison seems unperturbed by my outburst, coming further into the room to stand by the front of my desk. I realise now that a leather shoulder bag hangs heavily from his shoulder, swaying slightly with his movement.

"You should go home, Harrison. Get some rest."

"So should you sir. Come back tomorrow with fresh eyes, something might present itself then."

I smile at his caring. "You're right. But I think what I really need is a good drink." He returns the smile.

"Well then," he replies, "It would be my honour."

The smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, brightening his face and bringing warmth to his eyes. I can't help but smile back.

"That, I think, would be lovely." I stand and collect my jacket from the back of the chair, walking towards the door with Harrison behind me. I think I hear the rustling of papers for a second, but as I turn round to see there is nothing. Harrison smiles reassuringly and I turn left down the corridor, heading towards the bar.


	14. Winds of change

**21st September 2015**

**(Mary)**

It was a rainy day in April when I met John Watson. 

The sky was grey and moody like a teenager, and the rain was spitting down as if the heavens were full of angry cats. It was the kind of rain that seeps into every stitch of your clothing, drenching you from the inside out. 

My umbrella was fighting against the pummelling wind unsuccessfully, the fabric folding inside out and dancing with the cold air. Walking down Baker street was becoming more of a trek through the wilderness; wind biting at every surface of exposed skin and the rain seeping through even my most waterproof coverings. 

I reached the end of the street and deciding the umbrella in my hand was only making the journey harder I began to try and wrestle the wild thing into its collapsed position. As is sod's law a powerful gust swept the street just as I reached up to release the catch; blowing the umbrella out of my weakened grip. 

Down the busy street it flew; low over the heads of oblivious Londoners trying to walk into work without paying for a taxi. I ran down the busy path after it, weaving between the sodden people. A couple of times I almost caught it, before the wind picked up and swept it from my reach again. 

The wind changed direction and pulled the umbrella around the corner. I ran as fast as I could after it, colliding with a darkly dressed body as I turned round the bend. 

“I’m so sorry!” I began, holding my hands out in an apologetic surrender. The figure in front of me was smiling ever so slightly, and held in his hand the wild umbrella.

“I believe this is yours?” He collapsed the umbrella and passed it to me. 

“Yes! Thank you! I’ve been chasing it all down the street!” I laugh breathlessly. The man made a polite chuckle, before shoving his hands back into his pockets. 

Walking past him you would never have given him a second glance. He wore all black- from the scarf and hat down to his shoes. His hair was unkempt and blond, the strands escaping from his beanie looking greasy and lank. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his clothes hung off him as if they were meant for a larger person. 

“Mary.” I held out my gloved hand to shake his. He reluctantly accepted, as if the touch of another upset him.

“John”

He was dark and mysterious. Not at all my type, and yet I think that was what attracted me. He was completely the opposite of what I was looking for. Who I was looking for. This was a challenge, someone to figure out. 

So that was what caused me to ask the first question. To make the first move. 

“Coffee?” 

“God, yes.”

*******

When I get home from work the flat is clean for the first time in months. The general clutter of papers and dust are gone, and the floor is slightly damp from where the carpet cleaner has gone over it. 

Placing my keys in the bowl I slip off my shoes and hang up my coat, before venturing to find John. 

“Hello? I’m home” I call through the flat.

“Hi! I’m in the living room.” John’s voice echoes back.

I walk in to find him constructing one of the Ikea pieces we bought months ago. Another one of John’s unfinished projects. He began enthusiastically, buying all the furniture to refurbish the living room, but losing interest when it actually came to building the things. Since then the boxes have simply sat in a corner, untouched and unbuilt. 

“What are you doing?” I ask, hovering in the doorway.

“Building furniture. What does it look like?” 

“You never build furniture.” 

“I do now.” 

We stay silently staring at each other for a few moments. I realise that the telly is on; it’s volume muted. The news is showing, telling sad stories of murders around the country and terrorist attacks in Europe.

“How was work?” He breaks the silence, returning to focus on the screw he’s tightening. 

“It was work. You decided to have another day off?” 

“I’m building furniture.” He replies, as if that explains everything. 

Realising I’m still standing in the doorway I move into the kitchen and put the kettle on. 

“Do you want anything?” 

“Nah I’m okay. I’ve just made myself a tea thanks.” 

As I boil the water and leave the tea to brew, my eyes flicker towards the telly. A new story has just come on. 

‘BREAKING NEWS’ It reads. I turn away, not wanting to see another story about some poor souls death. My philosophy over the years hasn't changed. If it’s someone else’s life that doesn't affect me, then I don’t need to know. They deserve privacy.

“John has anything happened recently, you seem- happier than usual.” A moments silence follows the question, building a mist of tension between us. It seeps through the walls and curls around us; inescapable. Finally, he replies.

“No. Nothing. I just feel a bit better is all.” 

“Ok,” My answer is empty and hollow. Something is different, I’m sure of it. I can’t seem to put my finger on it, but since I came home to find him fast asleep in bed, he’s been different. Happier. 

I like it. I’m glad that he’s happy; perhaps he’s finally starting to move on. It’s just strange for his mood to change so suddenly, seemingly without reason.

Something catches my eye in the living room, and I find myself turning to see what it is. Three things happen in the next minute. One: I read the headline of the news story. Two: My cup of tea falls from my hand, the mug shattering on the tiled floor. Three: I know for sure that John Watson has lied to me. Big style. 

‘BREAKING NEWS: HAT DETECTIVE SHERLOCK HOLMES ALIVE’

And then the chaos begins. 


	15. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS: 
> 
> This chapter contains drug use.

**19th September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

The building is cold and grey. Even from on the doorstep the house pulls the heat out of you- leaving your insides shivering. Each of the windows on the ground floor are boarded up and graffitied from passers-by claiming a part of the street as their own. On the top floor, the windows have been left broken and gaping; no-one cares if the residents of this home fall out. No-one cares if they do anything, as long as it doesn't bother their precious little lives. 

Slowly I push the door open and step through. Inside, the house seems even colder than the outer, the walls are vampires sucking the life out of our worthless bodies. My footsteps echo through the hall; dull thuds on uncarpeted floor. The graffiti remains outside, the artists too scared to make their way in, and any who do are in no fit state to paint. You come here for one reason. 

I need release. I need to take myself away for a while and remove myself from the swamp of pain that is threatening to engulf me. Every step I take is calculated to make sure I don't fall any deeper into the marsh of hurt, so that the pain doesn't drown me. There are better things to drown in. 

At the end of the hallway are three doors, each yellow and peeling, like old skin. I choose the one on the far left and open it. Inside lies rows of dirty blankets and mattresses, many with a convulsed body sprawled over them. 

This is where I've ended up. Not my first choice, but I have nowhere else. Baker street is lonely. It holds too many memories. Not excluding the fact that Mrs Hudson wouldn't leave me alone if I returned. So, for now, I am here. 

There is an unoccupied pile of blankets in the far corner, which I make my way towards. Gently I sink to the ground and remove my coat. I feel so empty and useless, that it takes several attempts to take it off. My hands shake and tremble, the only external sign that something is wrong. That there is a war in my head that I am losing. A war that I can never win. 

John’s voice echoes in my head, repeatedly telling me to leave. Each time I hear it my heart sinks a little lower; a little more of it is chipped away. Three years I’ve been gone. In those three years, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of returning back to him. To tell him how things are, have really always been. We don't have to hide anymore- we can tell each other exactly how we feel. We can know this and keep on living and breathing and loving. Now, I have nothing left. Moriarty finally won. He burnt my heart out. 

From my pocket I pull out a small case, dusty from years of being hidden away, unused. I haven't needed it in so long. Now, I feel like I can’t breathe. I need it- more than I need John. I need to feel something other than this pain. 

Despite my shaking, I steady my hand enough to insert the needle into the crease at my elbow. The liquid is warm in my cold veins; burning through me like fire. For the first time in years, I feel alive.

I refill and set fire to my veins again. And again. I crave this feeling. I long for it. I’ve missed it. This feeling of bliss- the burning of my body associated with the end of a case, the result of running the streets- chasing suspects. Feelings of certainty. Happiness. Love. This is the feeling I live for. I would die for. All conveniently in one bottle. 

It feels like every cell in my body is alive. Not just functioning from day to day, but living and breathing individually. My whole body is at one- burning slowly over and over again. But it can’t last. It never does.

My eyes close and all I can see is him. Always him. I need him more than he will ever realise, more than he will ever understand. He fuels my fire in the days I can’t light my own, the days where I am cold and damp so the flames won't catch. All I have to do is look at him, and immediately I feel alive. How did I do this before? How did I function without John Watson by my side? I do not know. Now, it seems impossible. I have become addicted to the feeling he gives me, and now it has been taken away. 

The burning starts to ebb slightly- the flames withdrawing slowly back through my veins. I want to keep feeling their heat. To never stop. There’s a small voice in the back of my head that is telling me to slow down- that this is dangerous, I shouldn't be here. I silence it as my veins burn again with new fire, the blistering heat creeping up my body once more. The flames lick at the walls of my veins, a path of destruction with no sign of stopping.

My brain is floating, falling away from my surroundings. Trying to get away from the fire. I hold on as long as I can. This is how he has left me. This is who I’ve become in his absence. Pathetic.

I hear, rather than feel, my body slam to the floor. My muscles convulse in protest, and I can feel the unpleasant crawl of vomit through my throat. I can’t move at all- my body has finally turned against me. At first, I fight against it- trying to turn onto my stomach- but then I stop. I give in. Without really thinking about it, I stop struggling. I let myself fall into the dark that’s been following me for years. I let it swallow me.

I surrender.


	16. Blue Lies

**20th September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

The first thing I hear is shouting. Angry voices fill my ears, their words indistinguishable. My body is stiff and aching; every move I make sends pain crawling through my muscles.

The voices begin to become clearer. Two males, both mid-forties, both very angry. Judging by the slight echo and volume, they're standing just outside a door, in a long corridor. I refrain from opening my eyes, trying to hear what has caused the tension. From what I can tell, one man is attempting to do something against the other's wishes. The voices talk over each other too much to decipher anything else.

I'm in a bed. The smell of cheap washing powder and strong cleaning fluids tells me it's a hospital bed- as does the gentle sound of a heart monitor beside me. The sound is comforting- its consistency, its rhythm. Then again, the beeps also serve as a harsh reminder that life isn't done with me yet. I can't yet escape from her cold grip.

Suddenly the voices stop and a door slams a few feet away from me.

"Sherlock I know you're awake.”

"I should hope so, you're the one who woke me, Mycroft.”

"Yes, I am sorry about that." He pauses, "Brother mine, would you open your eyes I feel like I'm talking to a corpse.”

"And why aren't you?" I wait a few moments before pulling my eyes open. The room around me is baby blue. Everything from the door to the sheets- they make me feel sick just looking at them.

"I've been watching you. I knew where you were.”

"That doesn't answer the question.”

"Do you really think I was going to let you die?" There's a tense moment of silence. I look straight at Mycroft without blinking, trying to judge his emotions. He's always been easy to read. He'd like to think otherwise, but I suppose I've known him too long. Brotherly connection and all that rubbish.

I break the silence: "No, I suppose not. Thank you. Where am I?”

“St.Mary’s hospital"

"Ah yes. I should have seen it." I indicate towards the blue walls, making Mycroft smile slightly. It's less of a smile and more of a slight pull at the side of his lips.

"What were you thinking?”

"Not very much actually, I find that drugs tend to-“

"THIS IS NOT A GAME SHERLOCK!" He hits the end of his umbrella against the floor, his knuckles turning an alarming white as they grip the top.

I look him straight in the eye. "I know"

"What. What were you thinking? You almost died."

"I'm fully aware of that. That wasn't my intention, I assure you.”

“I thought you’d got past this.” He almost whispers, seemingly hurt by the fact I’ve fallen off the wagon. Of course, he’d take this personally. He feels like this is an attack on him and his ability to help me.

“It’s an addiction Mycroft. You don't get past it. You just stop giving in.”

He looks at me like I’m an alien. He’s not an addict. He can’t begin to imagine what it’s like. 

“Don’t take it so personally Mycroft. You have nothing to do with this.” I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Already I’m craving another hit. More fire. It’s unlikely, however, that Mycroft is going to let me out of his sight for a while. 

“You’re God damn right I’ll take this personally, Sherlock. I’ve spent my life trying to get you clean. I’m not giving up now.” 

I glare at him. I just want to be left alone. Leaning the pillows against the headboard, I sit myself up. It feels too much like I'm being talked down to. He knows exactly why I ended up here. He just wants me to admit it. 

"Sherlock, just because he doesn't want to see you doesn't mean-"

"Who were you shouting with? I didn't recognize the voice." Just because he knows, doesn't mean I want to talk to him about it.

He sighs, relenting to the change in conversation. I know this isn't over, but for now, he’s giving in. 

"Newspapers. A journalist saw you get taken into the ambulance. They're reporting the story tomorrow.” 

I frown. "Can't you just stop them? Isn't that what you normally do. Bribe or threaten them or something”

He sneers. "They don't want to play ball. No-one knows you're alive, remember. This is a big story for them.”

"Can't you do anything?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Threaten to steal all their umbrellas or something."

He tilts his head slightly and rolls his eyes. "I have enough, thank you."

The door opens, bringing in a slight breeze of cold air. A man of about thirty enters, holding a coffee and a thick file of paperwork. Government. His hair is mousy brown with flecks of blond at the edges, styled at the front so that it sticks up. He's wearing a light grey suit, similar to Mycroft's. Funny how we mirror those close to us.

"Oh, I didn't realize he'd woken up sir. I should have knocked. My apologies."

Confidently, he walks towards Mycroft and hands him the coffee, and places the files at the foot of my bed. This casual confidence unnerves me- most people are at least a little afraid of my brother, even those working closely with him.

"The files you asked for sir."

"Thank you, Harrison. You can leave now." He nods and exits, pulling the door softly shut behind him.

"I see you've got yourself a goldfish."

"Oh shut up" 

I smile as he takes a sip of his coffee. Mycroft likes him, even if he hasn't realized it yet. It's been a long time since that happened. Too long.

He places his coffee on the bedside table and scoops up the files with his left hand. Slowly, he scans through them one-handed, frowning slightly every so often. His posture is unusually hunched; his thumb rubs small circles over the top of his thigh.

"Mycroft what's wrong" My voice sounds dull in the small room. I am ignored, denied a reply.

"Mycroft. What aren't you telling me."

"Noth-"

"Don't lie to me I can see it all over you. Tell me what you've done."

He pauses, letting out a sigh. He won't catch my eye, even though I'm desperately trying to. Silence fills the room, broken only by the tick ticking of a clock on the far wall. It reads 7.05pm.

"Myc-"

"I haven't been entirely truthful," He interrupts. "I may have been... premature... about some of the information I've told you."

I stare at him. He blinks slowly, still not looking up at me. I can tell he isn't reading the file, his eyes are fixed on one spot. I think back to the last few weeks, trying to remember every conversation we've had. The last time we spoke was on the phone when he told me- No. He wouldn't. He can't have.

"No."

"I'm sorry Sherlock-"

"Why would you risk his life like that?! If Moran's been watching-"

"I know Sherlock. I couldn't stand to watch you pine for him-"

"Pine for him? Did you not think mourning for him would be worse?!"

“I was waiting until you had re-united to tell you. No-one knows you were back, I thought you’d be fine. Then you go and-“ He pauses, clearly considering his next words very carefully. As he should. “I’m sorry. Things didn't go as planned”

“For God’s sake Mycroft. Is there any part of my life that you don’t meddle in? If something happens to him, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I know.” 

We stay in silence for what feels like hours, both waiting for the other to break first. Eventually, Mycroft leaves- the room behind him feels emptier than before. 


	17. The first truth

**21st September 2015**

**(John)**

“How long have you known?”

“Two weeks.”

“Jesus John, and you didn't think to tell me?” 

“I didn't think it was relevant”

“John, your best friend, who’s meant to be dead, who you've been mourning all these years, is alive, and you didn't think it was relevant?!”

I don’t say anything. I’m sat on the floor surrounded by unassembled furniture pieces, feeling like a child that’s being scolded. Mary is standing by the kitchen doorway, running her hands through her hair. The news report has long since finished, some fluff piece about hedgehogs is running now. I turn the television off.

When she saw the headlines, all she said was ‘John’ and stared at the screen. We sat in silence until the report finished, and then she started to melt down.

“He lied to you all these years.”

“I know”

“Why?” 

I stay silent for a while, mulling the question over in my brain. Why. Why did Sherlock Holmes fuck me over, and leave me mourning over his empty grave for three years? I asked myself that a lot in the first few days after he came back. Why. I pondered the question over and over, pulling it to shreds. Then I realised. Why does he do anything?

“To protect me”

She doesn't say anything to that. She simply sits down, leaning back against the doorframe.

“I didn't want to worry you… we’re not… we’re not speaking.” I stare at the floor. 

“God, you sound so childish. You've been missing him all this time, and now you won’t figure things out?” 

When I look up she's staring at me. She’s not angry. There are tears in the corner of her eyes, but she's not angry.

“He wanted more than I could give him,” I notice her hair blends in slightly with the walls. We never had them repainted after we moved in. Never had the effort. They're a bland magnolia. Everything in this flat is bland. The walls, the furniture, the people. 

“He wanted you back at Baker Street” 

It’s not a question it’s a statement. She knows what the implications of that would be. Things would return to how they were before, the careless life that accompanied living with him. Or at least, that’s what he wants. 

“Yes”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him to leave.”

“Oh, John” 

She doesn't know yet. She doesn't understand how we left each other, the unspoken promises we made before he ‘died’, the breaking of them as he left for the last time. 

“Is that why you're not going to see him?”

“What do you mean?” I feel a crease form between my eyes as I frown.

“The news said he's in hospital.”

“I wasn't watching it”

“Oh”

“I can’t see him” 

“Why?”

“I just can’t" 

I can feel my hands balling up into fists. I push them into the floorboards, trying to keep myself together. We shouldn't be having this conversation. When I told him to leave, he should have left. Left the flat, left my life, everything. He shouldn't be here now. Not even in conversation. 

“Mary-“

“No John, I’m not done having this conversation. I didn't know much about him. I always made sure never to ask, but I do know what he did to you. What he meant to you. So stop being a child and go and fix things”

I glare at her. She will never know those things. She can never understand what I went through, however hard she tries. I am not a child. 

“You don’t know anything” I spit at her. She seems taken aback. For a moment I feel sorry for her, but only for a moment. She's swimming in too deep water. She has no place talking to me about how I feel about him and what he did.

“Enlighten me. What don’t I know?” Her eyes burn into me like fire. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t do that. You told me I’m wrong, now tell me why.”

Tears sting my eyes. My throat constricts, making me take deep, shuddering breaths in order not to cry. I don't want to tell her. I want things to be like they were before, without him. But they can’t. Things can never be the same again, because I need him. I need his stupid face and the life that accompanies him. Mary is only a substitute, she's not him. She never was. Which, to begin with, was the point. Yet now it’s not enough. I need him. I need Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson, and the cases. I need more. I long for nights spent tangled on the sofa with him whilst he's in his mind palace, stolen kisses between cases and long nights sleeping in each other's shadow. This, now, it’s not enough. But I am afraid of it. I am afraid of forgiving him, only to lose him again. I am afraid of losing the only thing I can count on, the only person who has been here for me all this time. Who helped me when no-one else could. I’m afraid of the unknown. 

Finally, I can’t keep the tears back any longer. I cry, and oh, how I cry. My face drips with saltwater, stinging as it falls. Mary stands up and walks over to me. One hand pulls me to her chest, and one rests on the top of my head. She knows. I can tell by the way she holds me- her hands don’t move and are rigid against my skin. She holds me so she doesn't have to see me. So it’s a little less real. She doesn't say anything for a while, but finally, finally, she whispers the truth. My impossible truth. I reply simply, and then it is done. She understands. 

“You love him.”

“More than anything.”


	18. Fallout

**22nd September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, I am finally discharged. After two days of lying in an enclosed room with only my brother for company- I need to go home. Or at least, anywhere but here. I need room to think. I have to think about what comes next because I honestly don't know what to do. I need to protect John, every moment that he is alone puts him in more danger. However, I don't want to hurt him anymore. He told me to leave and I shall do so- he deserves to be left alone. That's what he wants.

The receptionist takes ages to assemble my discharge papers. He fumbles around the desk, dropping pens and taking an age to fill out each detail. Impatiently, I lean my back against the edge of the desk, tapping my fingers on my thigh.

Mycroft walks towards me, sauntering over from the nurse's station. He looks worn out. His eyes are sunken and laden with dark circles, and his clothes don't seem to fit him quite right. They're too tight, too constricting.

"I've just spoken to your doctor. She's recommending we send you to therapy-"

“No."

"-but I politely told her that we'd consider it."

I shoot him a look of disgust. He raises his hands in mock surrender.

"I know you're not going to consider it but she doesn't have to know that."

"Okay. Good." We stand in silence for a moment, before the receptionist finally hands me my papers. I sign in the relevant places, trying to appear friendly, even though I'm dying inside.

"What are you going to do about John?" I ignore Mycroft's question for a moment, finishing reading the papers and handing them back to the receptionist. His I.D card says his name is Oliver.

"Thanks."

"You'll have to wait for the doctors to sign too. It shouldn't take a moment." I sigh and nod at Oliver, before turning around to address my brother.

"I don't know. What gives you the impression that this is only my responsibility?”

Mycroft looks at his feet, avoiding my face. Never did like being in the wrong, Mycroft. Always liked his seat on the high horse.

"I can put extra surveillance on him, have my people watching out?"

"Your people? If he's any good some of 'your people' will be his people. He's clever, he was Moriarty's best man."

"Then what else do you suggest?"

I can feel a headache beginning to form in the temples of my skull. Gently I rub the surrounding skin, trying to dull the pain. Mycroft taps his umbrella impatiently, finally looking at me. He has wrinkles forming along his face- small folds in the skin giving away his age. He's getting old. We both are.

"We can warn him. Let him know what's coming so he can be ready."

"You've seen him, Sherlock, he's not ready for anything. He's barely surviving himself."

"Well, I don't know then."

"Are you sure you can't just-" He begins.

"I'm sure. It can't be me."

"Well then."

The pain in my head is getting stronger. I hate not knowing what to do. He needs protecting, and the only way I will believe that he is safe is with me. But that's not possible. He doesn't want me.

"You'll have to talk to him." I say: "Get him to move somewhere, out of London. Have someone you trust live in his house, make it look like he never left. Moran will stay here, and John will be safe."

Mycroft nods along.

"That could work."

"That's why I suggested it," I smirk.

One of my doctors walks out of the nurse's station towards the front desk. She takes her time chatting with Oliver, asking about his new house and how he’s finding his first few days. It’s all small talk and I can feel myself getting annoyed. I just want to leave.

“Sherlock,” He waits until I’m looking at him to finish his sentence. “I’m going to do everything in my power,”

I snort and look away before he’s finished. It’s fantastic and terrifying that Mycroft is grovelling. It’s a new experience, but one that I wish I didn't have to be in.

“I know, doesn't mean I forgive you though.” I think for a moment, considering the weight of my next sentence. “I’m not going to walk away again. Just please, help me keep him safe. Otherwise, these three years were for nothing.”

He smiles weakly, nodding before indicating towards the Doctor and Oliver. They've finished chatting, and she is finally signing the discharge forms. Handing them back to the receptionist, she smiles over at us.

"You're free to go."

"Oh thank God, I thought I was going to be stuck here all week." Mycroft exhales as if he has been holding his breath.

"You could have left at any time!" I tease.

"I know." He grins at me and gestures towards the doors. I can't help but smile back. We have a plan. Soon, John will be safe. We can begin the search for Moran without worrying about anyone. After that, I don't know what will happen. For now, though, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he will be safe.

As we step outside into the cold thin morning air, the first thing I hear are the sirens of an ambulance. It races around the corner and into the ambulance bay, the paramedics jumping out as soon as they come to a stop.

It’s not an unusual occurrence, this is a hospital after all. Yet, I can't help glancing over at them as we walk towards Mycroft's car. They wheel out a stretcher with some poor sod strapped to it. One of the paramedics starts CPR on their patient as they wheel them towards the hospital doors. I don't know what they look like, their face is too blood-streaked to tell what lies beneath. As far as I can tell, however, it is the body of a man.

Before I really have time to think about it, my feet begin walking over to the hospital doors, following the stretcher. Morbid curiosity I suppose.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?" Mycroft calls after me but doesn't move.

"Somewhere," I mutter back.

Doctors, nurses, and paramedics rush around me as I walk through the ambulance entrance doors. The medics pounce on the new patient like flies to a corpse; pumping fluids and intubating the man.

"Can someone page Dr Kepner please?"

"We're going to take him straight into surgery, someone let them know we're coming."

Voices shout back and forth- the collected panic of trying to save a life. No-one is paying attention to me yet. A few nurses have glanced my way, but they're preoccupied with the patient at hand. He's been moved onto a gurney now. Tubes and wires stick out of him, keeping him alive.

A new doctor walks through a set of doors at the back and begins to take charge. She orders nurses to fetch certain fluids and assesses the body in front of her. I walk tentatively forward towards them.

"Someone tell me what we know, please. " She asks.

"We're not entirely sure what happened, but he appears to have fallen through a window. There is glass embedded in the skin on the left side, and bruising all over. Injuries include; internal bleeding, suspected broken ribs, and head trauma. We're taking him to surgery to find the source of the bleed."

"Good. Do we have a medical history?"

"No allergies or chronic medical problems. Is on drugs for depression and appears to be underweight. His girlfriend found him this morning."

I stop walking. No. Not yet. Please don't be who I think it is. We haven't even had a chance to get him safe yet. Please, don't be you.

"Name?"

I know before she hears the answer what it is. I feel my knees buckling, so I have to grab hold of the nearest section of wall to stay upright. Behind me, the doors open and I hear Mycroft follow me inside.

"Sherlock?"

"It's him," I whisper as the nurse reels off the name of the man in front of her.

"John Watson."


	19. Virus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS: 
> 
> Anxiety, Suicide attempt. 
> 
> You can skip this chapter and move on to the next one if you need, it shouldn't be difficult to follow.

**22nd September 2015**

**(John)**

I am completely alone. 

Although there is a woman lying next to me, breathing steadily in sleep, I feel completely alone.

After the tears had stilled, she grabbed her coat and walked straight out of the door without another word. I don’t know where she went, or who she was with, but I was already in bed by the time she came home. She slid in next to me without a single whisper, simply pulling up the duvet and falling gently to sleep. 

No matter how hard I try, how long I close my eyes for, I cannot sleep. I feel completely and utterly isolated. Mary will never understand this- never understand how I’m being eaten up inside. How this feeling won’t go away, no matter how long I try to fight it. The virus in my bones, destroying me from the inside. I can never be the man she deserves. Never. I don’t love her. I need her- but I don't love her. 

I feel as if I’ve betrayed her. All these years I’ve been pretending to be interested, to be her other half- when in reality I’ve been clinging to the safety net. Afraid to hit rock bottom, when in fact the net has stretched and reached the bottom anyway. 

I’ve dragged her down with me. 

A surge of anger begins to expand in my stomach, washing over me until I am clenching my fists so hard that I draw blood. My nails push into the skin, allowing blood to pool in my palms. I let it.

I need to get out. I can’t think, it feels like my thoughts are pressing down on my head, contracting tighter and tighter until I’m sure I will burst. I need fresh air. I need to breathe. 

I climb out of bed, careful not to wake her. The walls themselves feel like they are moving in on me, the space in the hallway getting smaller and smaller. I almost fall down the stairs in my desperation to leave, my feet tripping over themselves, uncoordinated and clumsy.

The door is locked. Of course it would be, it’s night time. I fumble around, looking for a key. There isn't one. Panic begins to climb my throat, pushing its long fingers into my mouth and reaching into my chest. Mary must have taken it upstairs. I know I can’t go back without waking her so I look for another way out. 

My breathing becomes rapid and desperate, the air thick and warm in my lungs. I stumble back into the living room, navigating around the debris left from my furniture attempt. 

The sight of them discarded on the floor fills me with the heavy feeling of loss. Each piece taunts me, reminding me that I’m not good enough for them. The man who hurt me and the women who left me. Neither of them wants me. No-one will ever want me.

My eyes begin to blur. I desperately need to get out of this flat, into the clean fresh air. I can’t breath; I feel trapped. 

The window. I begin to try and open it, opening the latch and pushing it forward but it’s stuck. I push and push but to no avail- it only becomes harder and harder to breathe. Panic’s icy fingers curl around my lungs and tear at their walls. I need to get out. I need to get out. I need to-

I slam my whole body into the window and it shatters in a cascade of glass and noise. Somehow, I manage to grab the walls to stop myself from falling out. 

Air rushes into my chest, chasing away the fingers that have torn through me. It washes over my face and for a second, I feel free. 

Then I hear the noise from upstairs. Creaking floorboards remind me that there is a woman in the bed upstairs. The woman I have betrayed. 

I could leave. She’d never have to see me again. She could live her own life, find someone new. Or stay by herself, whatever makes her happy. Anything to make her happy. 

If I left, I don’t know where I would go. What I would do. Nothing would change, I would still carry the virus in my bones. Unless-

My hands smooth the rough wood of the windowpane, the glass shredding the skin of my hands. Unless I didn't go anywhere.

Slowly my feet begin to climb up the window. I could fly, like he did. I could leave here, leave them all- free the demons that are following me. I could. I could do it- if I wanted. I could leave and let her be happy. 

Before I have time to think about it, I’m standing crouched on the sill. Below me the streets are empty. No cars, no people. Nothing. I could fall. Just like he did. 

It would be the end. I wouldn’t have to feel it anymore, this weight that has been crushing me all these years. I could starve this virus inside of me. Finally, I could let go. I could fall and fall, forever. 

I could show him how it felt. 

The creaking comes further down the stairs and I hear her call out: “John?” 

It’s now or never.

Subconsciously, my feet decide to step forward. One step, then nothing. I am falling.

I am falling and I am never coming back.


	20. Ugly Planet

**25th September 2015**

**(John)**

The first thing I am aware of is the feeling of something enclosing my hand. It’s warm and soft, touching my skin without constricting it. There’s a humming in my ears and an aching all over my body: it feels as if there are pins poking into every surface of my skin, concentrated around my ribs, head, and legs. If this is death, it is not what I expected.

Slowly, I open my eyes. It takes a couple of attempts- the lids are heavy and crusted over. At first, I can only see blurs of colour, however, after a few moments I can begin to make out the shape of the ceiling and the lights embedded within it. Blinking, I glance to my left and see a black shape sat beside me. Trying to get a better view, I move my head to see it better. That’s when the pain really starts.

A wave of fire shoots through my brain, burning everything in its path. I cry out- a warbled animalistic noise falling from my mouth. The blur beside me moves, and the touch on my hand is gone. I close my eyes with the pain, staying as still as I can to try and stop the fire.

“John? John, are you awake, can you hear me?!” A familiar voice exclaims beside me. Inwardly, I smile. Of course he’s here.

“No, I’m still asleep,” I reply, opening my eyes to see him watching me with intent. He looks genuinely worried, stood with his head over me so that I can see him without having to move. A faint smile passes his lips before his brow furrows.

“What hurts?” He asks gently.

“Everything. My head, mostly.”

For a moment he leaves my line of vision, then returns, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve called for a doctor to come and see you.”

“Thank you.”

I sit up so I can see the room, gritting my teeth through the pain. Sherlock looks as if he’s going to tell me to stay still, but I stare at him, daring him to try. Neither of us speaks again until the doctor arrives. As he walks in he shoots a look at Sherlock, before beginning to examine me.

“You really shouldn't be in here, sir.”

“Tough,” Sherlock replies, slouching back into the visitor's chair. Wearing only a shirt and trousers, he looks as if he’s been living in that chair. His shirt is creased and wrinkled, and his hair looks as if he hasn't showered in days. It hangs limply on his head, the curls unwinding. Above all, he looks exhausted. His eyes keep falling shut, before being snapped open again.

A light flashes in my eye, hiding Sherlock from sight. The doctor proceeds with his examination, checking my fluids before finally scribbling notes on the chart.

“Well, you’re looking much better Mr Watson. You had to have surgery on your chest to stem the bleeding from your liver, which went very well, and you’ve still got a mild concussion, which should clear up within a few days. You have a hairline fracture on your right lower rib and left tibia but overall you’re very lucky. No major brain damage, no infection from the operation.”

I nod slowly to acknowledge him. Everything is fixable.

“Now, we’ll keep you in and monitor you for a few weeks, then discuss our options.”

“Options?” I ask.

“Yes, Miss Morstan visited and told us she thinks you jumped out of a window. I think we should discuss some kind of therapy for you.”

“Oh- okay. I don’t think that will be necessary-“

“We can discuss it when you're back on your feet. No need to rush into a decision.” He smiles.

“Well, the nurse will be along soon to administer some morphine. I really suggest that without permission from immediately family that-“

“He stays.” I croak.

“Very well. You have good friends, Mr Watson.” He leaves the door open on his way out. Immediately, Sherlock goes and shuts it. There’s an awkward silence for a while until, finally, I break it.

“Why are you here?”

Sherlock stares at me as if I’d just told him the moon was made of cheese.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I told you to leave.” I half-whisper.

He slumps back into his chair.

“That’s true.” He seems to mull something over in his brain for a moment, then whispers: “Do you want me to leave?”

I don’t really know why I answer how I do. I suppose the thought of being left here, alive, on my own, is too much. At least I know that he is choosing to be here. He wants to be.

“No.”

His shoulders drop and a smile ghosts his lips.

“Mary was here for a while. She left a few hours ago.” His face stays neutral but I can see the pain in his eyes. She was an unexpected variable in his plan, one that I’m sure he would much rather be without. 

“Okay. I’m sure she’ll be back later.”

“Mm.” He drops his gaze to the floor, avoiding my face. He’s nervous, unsure of himself and where we stand. I don't think I’ve ever seen him like this, or at least, not for a very long time. The silence between us is full of unasked questions. He’s too afraid to ask. 

“I had a panic attack,” I answer, deciding that there’s no point hiding anything. If I don't tell him, he’ll work it out eventually. His head shoots up to look at me as I speak, reminding me of a startled deer. “It was the heat of the moment, I convinced myself that- that no-one wanted me. That it was better for everyone else if I were gone. For good.”

“Oh, John.” He slides the chair closer to my bed, taking my hand in both of his.

“I want you.” He whispers.

I smile weakly.

“You had a funny way of showing it.”

“You told me to-“

“I don’t mean that Sherlock. I mean when you ‘died’. When you didn't come back for me.” He starts to protest- “Shut up. I know you had to. I know you had to leave but it still hurt. Still, hurts. A dark part of me wanted you to know how that felt.”

He winces and squeezes my hand. “I know I can never make that up to you.”

“No Sherlock, you can’t. And after all these years, you just walk back into my life, expecting everything to go back to normal. Things have changed, Sherlock. I’ve changed. I met Mary, now I’ve lost her. I lost everything.” I take a sharp breath, finally allowing myself to crumble. To get everything out. I take my troubles and I put them on the man in front of me, hoping that finally, he will understand.

I pull my hand gently out of his.

“I loved you and you left me.” 

The whisper seems to echo in the silence, swimming in the air between us. The silence isn't uncomfortable, it's full of unspoken secrets and experiences one has had that the other can’t understand. We used to share everything- every moment in our lives was together. Each adventure we had, every case, every quiet moment, was shared. Now there’s a huge gap in our stories, three years that neither of us can account for. That neither of us can understand.

We stare at each other, neither of us speaking. I look into him and he looks into me, the rest of the world slowly melting away. I can see every emotion, every feeling that’s going through his head. I can see that he’s sorry, that he’s scared. All I want is to make everything okay. To take him into my arms and make everything okay again.

“You said you hated loving me.” The sentence comes out as a whisper, tentatively travelling across the space between us, chasing away the echoes. I didn't realise it was bothering me so much until the words passed my lips. 

“No. I hate being able to love, I don’t hate loving you. For a long time, I didn't think I could. I was always told that sentiment is a bad thing, something to hide away and be ashamed of. Now, I am beginning to understand that it isn't true. Or at least, if it is, I don't care anymore. Out of everyone on this stupid, ugly planet, I am happy to love you.”

I smile at him for a moment, starting to fully understand his thought process. He’s never done this before. He’s like a teenager, unsure of what to do and what to say. He leans forward slightly impulsively. I know what he’s trying to do before he does, for once by brain working faster than his. I flinch backwards, harder than I intend. It makes me wince inside; it’s not that I don’t want to kiss him, it’s just that this isn’t the time. I’m not ready for this. Not yet.

“Sherlock, not yet. I’m not ready. It’s all just, too much right now.”

He pulls at the skin on his hands, kneading his palm. He’s scared of this, of the rejection. That there’s still a chance I don’t want him in my life anymore. His eyes watch the floor, refusing to look at me.

“I’m sorry Sher-“

“I have to go.” He interrupts, striding out of the room halfway through his sentence, almost colliding into the nurse as she enters.

“Ah! Mr Watson, welcome back!” A northern twang bounces through her words. She beams at me, quickly busying herself with administering morphine.

“Is your boyfriend okay? That’s the first time I’ve seen him leave this room since you left surgery.” She’s chatty, breezing through the room with loud confidence.

“He’s not-” I begin, then pause. I’m not really sure anymore. She raises a single eyebrow at me, her eyes scanning me up and down, questioning.

“Well, sure acts like he is. Wouldn't leave your side, he wouldn't. Held your hand as you slept, bless him. Was a bit rude t’couple of nurses, mind you, but he’s just stressed. We weren't sure if you were gonna wake up you see.” The nurse keeps chatting away to herself, and I wonder how long I’ve been asleep. It doesn't feel like an hour since I fell, however, anaesthesia can steal days and weeks away from you without feeling like a minute has passed.

“What’s the day today?” I ask, interrupting the nurse.

“Let me see-“ She checks her watch: “Friday 25th”

“September?”

“Aye. There, all done. I hope you'll be feeling better soon. I best be off, but you take care now.” She bustles out the room, leaving me staring at the far wall.

We’re both doing everything in the wrong order. He’s expecting something I’m not ready for when we haven't even fixed our friendship. That, over everything, is what is important. Us. 

Reaching out a hand, I discover that a few of my possessions are scattered on the bedside table. I pull off my phone, carefully selecting Sherlock’s number. Not long after I hit the send button, a ping tells me I have a reply.

**‘Friends?'**

**‘Friends. SH’**

Everything’s going to be okay.


	21. Boundaries

**29th September 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

“Sherlock, please.” John looks at me across the room, knowing eventually I’ll cave. He looks so bored, lying there day after day, even when I brought his laptop over from his flat. 

“Fine, but if something happens remember I utterly disapp-“ 

“Yeah, no-one cares. Come on, let me out. I need to go outside.” 

I sigh, begrudgingly pulling over a wheelchair to the side of the bed. 

“We should get a nur-“ I start.

“Nope, I can do this.”

I watch him as I lower the bed. For the first time since I've seen him, he looks excited. He wants this. He needs this signpost in recovery- that he is strong enough to let himself outside. Yet I fear he isn’t. 

Slowly he reaches his arms out towards the chair, gripping the rests tightly with his fingers. I take off his heart monitor and switch it to silent, ignoring the flashing screen. Unhooking his fluids and catheter bag, I hook them onto the back of the chair, John preparing himself to lift his body off the bed. 

At first, he manages. His arms shake as he lifts his weight to hover over the chair but he makes it. However, as he lowers his body down into the seat, his legs still draped over the bed, the shaking arms begin to give way. Without thinking, I grab him by the armpits, slowly lowering his body down until he is firmly on the seat. As I busy myself with placing his legs into position, I notice that he is grimacing slightly.

“John?” 

“I’m fine. Sitting down, you don’t realise how much your ribs hurt, that’s all.” He replies, taking shallow breaths to try and stop the pain. He takes a few moments to compose himself, whilst I make sure he is stable. As I finish, I stand up. He flashes me a smile, hiding his pain beneath the many layers of bruises and bandages. 

“Let’s go” 

The hallways, much like the hospital rooms, are all varying shades of pale blue. Nurses bustle past us in deep blue uniforms as I wheel John down the corridor, only a few even glancing towards us. Each hallway is like a maze, hundreds of rooms lining the walls, all full of patients of various ages and health. I start trying to deduce why they’re all here, but I stop myself. None of that matters right now. 

Finally, we reach a door that leads to an outside area, a small garden sponsored by a local scout group. Green plants grow in small beds, surrounded by weeds- unkempt and unruly. A small concrete path weaves between the beds; benches occasionally lying just off the path. 

Both John and I remain silent as I push him towards a bench. The smell of dirt and fresh wood wafts through the air, coating the insides of my nostrils. My hair dances slightly in the soft wind, the kind of breeze that seems small but can climb into your bones and freeze you from the inside out. 

“Bit breezy isn't it,” John comments as I sit down, trying to break the ice. Things have been a little awkward between us, though neither will say anything about it. We’ve crossed over the friendship barrier into something new, yet both of us are trying to backtrack, to pretend that nothing has changed.

“Yes, it is. Are you warm enough?”

“I’m fine Sherlock. This is better than being in that damned room all day.” 

I nod in reply, watching a window along the far wall of the garden. 

“Have you been staying at Baker Street?” John asks, fiddling with the sleeve of his pyjamas.

“No, there’s a hotel across the street. I’m staying there.” I turn my head to look at him. 

Although he is still thin, his face has filled out much more, the dark bags that hung from his eye have all but disappeared, covered instead by bruises and abrasions. 

“Why?”

I shrug.

“I’m not ready to go back yet. It doesn't feel the same alone.” 

He takes a glance at me, studying my face, before turning away again.

“Yeah, I get you.” 

We sit for a while, each of us in our own world. Our silence is lined with tension but is not altogether uncomfortable. The wind picks up slightly, sending cold chills down my spine. John’s pyjama bottoms flap in the breeze, making him smile. A few moments more, I think, before we head back inside. 

Across the garden, the door opens. Both John and I turn our heads towards the movement, curiosity overruling the urge to be inconspicuous. 

It’s her. 

Wearing the same red scarf and coat as the first day I saw her, Mary walks calmly through the doorway towards us. Beside me, John tenses slightly. I feel the urge to grab his hand, but I resist. This is not the right time for that. I understand that now. 

“Hi.” She says, stopping just in front of us, hands in her pockets.

“Hey,” John answers, looking up at Mary, but focusing on a point just over her shoulder. 

“You must be the infamous Sherlock.” She extends one of her hands, which I take politely, squeezing slightly. 

“Indeed I am. Sorry for bumping into you.” 

“So that was you, I thought it might have been.” She smiles at me, then focuses her gaze on John. 

“I think we need to talk.” She tells him gently. He nods, glancing down at his feet. 

“I’ll give you some privacy.” Standing, I brush my hand lightly over John’s knee. 

“Will you be warm enough?” I ask.

“Yes, stop worrying.” He smiles faintly. 

Mary takes my vacant seat as I walk away. Giving in to temptation, I watch their reflection in the windows as I make my way over to the door. John looks clunky and awkward, Mary tense yet smiley. No matter what, I can’t dislike the woman. She cared for John when I couldn’t, and for that I thank her. 

I am greeted by a rush of warm air as I walk inside. Not wanting to walk too far away, I take a chair that sits along the wall. 

A fist-sized ball of nerves sits beside my heart. I don’t know Mary well enough to know what her attitude to this situation will be. For John’s sake more than my own, I can’t leave again. I can’t let him believe that he is alone. Yet, I don’t know what that will mean for our lives. Domestic weekend visits or busy weekday plans, I have no idea which will be our future. I hope for one and fear the other. 

The sound of the door opening jerks me awake and I’m surprised for a moment: I wasn’t aware of falling asleep. The hallway is empty, other than Mary walking quickly towards the direction of the exit. 

“Wait,” I call after her, “Is he okay?” 

She slows to turn and look at me. Walking backwards, her face is a mixture of relief and pain.

“He’s all yours.” 

And with that, she leaves. 


	22. Purple Hands

**29th September 2015**

**(Mary)**

“Hi.” It seems like as good a place as any to start.

“Hi.” He says back, finally looking up at me.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, moving to sit in Sherlock’s vacated spot. The bench is rough and slightly warm- residue left from its previous occupant. 

“Yeah, I’m doing alright. Still sore, but yeah.” John answers, looking straight ahead.

“Good.”

We sit in silence, interrupted only by the whooshing of doors opening and closing. Finally, I break it.

“So, he’s here.”

“He is.” John gives a half-smile, slowly rubbing his thumbs over each other.

“Are you…?” I ask, not bothering to finish the thought. John knows what I mean, even if I’m too scared to ask. A cold wind pushes between us and I shove my hands under my thighs to keep them warm.

“No. We’re not- we’re just friends.” 

“For now,” I add. He licks his lips nervously and doesn't bother to correct me. I’m not stupid. I can see what will happen. I want it to, I want John to finally be happy. I want him to have the life he’s been dreaming about. To use this second chance he’s been given. Still, it will hurt.

John moves his gaze from his hands, straight into my eyes. “I’m sorry I didn't tell you about him sooner. I was angry and confused. I should have-“

“It’s okay. I understand. You panicked.” I rest my hand on his.

“Yeah.” He squeezes my hand gently with both of his. They're cold to the touch. When I glance at them, I see they're going slightly purple, like an old man's hands. I smile to myself.

“We don’t have to talk about last week if you don't want to.”

“No, I think I’d like to. You saved me, Mary. You have to understand that. You saved me. If I hadn't met you, I’m not entirely sure I would be here now.” John takes a deep breath, quickly glancing at me and then to the floor.

“But I’ve dragged you down with me. I felt, still feel like I’ve betrayed you. You've always deserved more than me. I don’t know what my life is anymore. It will never be the same as before Sherlock left, and it scares me that I have no idea what will happen next. That night I just snapped. I panicked. I felt as if I had no-one left.” He swallows, and for a moment I think he might cry. He doesn’t, but he doesn't continue.

“You’ll always have me. I’ll be here for as long as you need.” I reply, brushing my thumb along the palm of his hand.

“He loves me.” He continues, nervously licking the corner of his mouth.

“I know.” 

John begins opening his mouth to speak, but I interrupt. “He died for you John, it’s obvious. He died for you and came back. Plus there’s the fact he’s not left your room in a week. It’s a mystery how it doesn't smell like a pig-sty in there.”

He cracks a smile, a proper toothy one. One I haven't seen for a long time.

I’ll miss him. Neither of us has been truly happy for a long time. Another lifetime perhaps, and we would have been fantastic together. A lifetime without Sherlock Holmes. For now, it’s not meant to be. But I meant what I said. I will be there for him whenever he needs me. Both of them. The next few months are going to be hard, mentally and physically in Johns case. I want the best for him.

Besides me, I notice that John has begun to shiver. He needs to get inside soon.

“Come on, you’re getting cold. Let’s get you inside.” I stand and walk to the back of Johns chair, ready to wheel him back. As I unfasten the breaks and begin pushing him forward, he speaks. Quietly, but not so much that the wind carries his voice away.

“I did love you, you know. I needed you. I’ve just loved him for a long time, more than anyone before.”

“It’s okay,” I begin, “You don't have to explain.”

His hand flies up to mine, clutched around the wheelchair handle. It’s even colder than before. I stop pushing the chair.

“No. It’s important to me that you know that. I dragged you down with me but I didn't use you. You’re far more important to me than that.” He looks at me as much as he can without moving his torso. He looks so tired. I just want to hold him and make everything better again. Unfortunately, that’s not how the world works. He has to sort this out for himself.

“Another lifetime,” I say.

“Another lifetime.” He confirms, squeezing my hand before placing it back in his lap. 

Smiling, I keep walking, pushing him towards a different door than the one Sherlock walked out of. I want a few more minutes alone with John.

As we walk through the doors I wave down one of the nurses, asking to help get John back to bed and check him over. I have no idea how he got out in the first place. Whilst the nurse bustles around him, tucking him into bed and recording his vitals, John and I just talk. Not about anything particular, just small-talk about the neighbours; this years Strictly line up; what we’re both having for dinner. It feels so normal- so pure. For a while, we could be at home. We may as well have been sat on the sofa, with the radio on in the background. For a while, I feel normal.

John’s eyes begin to droop a few minutes after the nurse leaves. He tries so hard to keep them open, blinking rapidly every few seconds. It’s time.

“Well, I’ll let you sleep. You look exhausted.”

He nods gratefully but doesn't say anything. I gather my coat and bag, before moving towards the door. Before I get through, I turn to face him. He’s watching me go, with weary eyes. He’s wondering if this is the last time we’ll ever see each other. Maybe it is. 

“I did come by to see you. A few times. You were still asleep. I couldn’t see you like that. Not if there was the chance you wouldn't wake up.” I look at my shoes for a second. I can feel his gaze on my face, burning my cheeks. “Also, I didn't fancy awkward small talk with him” I smile and hear John chuckle slightly behind me.

“Goodbye, John. I’ll see you soon. I wish you all the best with him.”

He nods in reply and I leave before either of us can say anything else.

The corridors are pale blue. They're oddly calming, as if I’m swimming underwater. I walk back outside and through the doors that Sherlock left by. They make a strange swishing noise as I push them open, which wakes the sleeping Sherlock immediately beside the doors.

He calls out to me, a twinge of panic in his voice.

“Hey, is he okay?” His voice gives a slight echo down the corridors.

“He’s all yours,” I call back, keeping walking.


	23. Us against the world

**1st October 2015**

**(John)**

When I wake up, Sherlock is gone. He’s normally sat in his chair every morning, waiting for me to wake up. He looks as if he hardly gets any sleep, so much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn't going to the hotel at all. Although it feels unusual for Sherlock not to be there, I’m almost glad he’s not if it means he’s actually sleeping, or, God forbid, eating.

I’m groggy first thing in the mornings. Gooey sleep fills my eyes, blurring my vision. That’s probably the reason why I don’t immediately see the other Holmes brother, lurking in the corner instead of my usual visitor.

“Mycroft” I yawn, wiping the sleep out of my eyes.

“Before you ask, he’s eating breakfast and taking a shower. My orders. No doubt he’ll be here within the next few minutes. He seems to like this room an awful lot.” He smiles his odd, half-formed smile. The one that makes it look as if he never learnt how to as a child. I wouldn't be surprised.

“Thank you. I figured you had something to do with it. His stomach rumbles were becoming a bit distracting.”

Mycroft begins to fiddle with the ring around his finger nervously. I’ve always wondered why he wears it, as he’s not married and the ring doesn't look particularly special in any way.

“It was a gift. Family heirloom.”

Of course, he would know what I was thinking. The Holmes brothers always do.

“Ah. I did wonder.”

“I’ve come to inform you of a… situation… we find ourselves in currently.” He doesn't look away from my face, which is slightly disconcerting. He looks as if he’s forcing himself to hold our eye contact.

“Uh…Ok. ‘We’ being who exactly?”

“Yourself, Sherlock, and I.” Mycroft looks away for a slight moment, to a point just beside my head. “Before you say anything, he was planning to tell you himself, at the right moment. However, I feel as if I have a certain, responsibility shall we say, for our current dilemma.”

“You mean it's your fault.” I know bullshit when I hear it. At my words, he grimaces and twists the ring faster.

“That is one way to put it, yes.” Abandoning the ring, Mycroft pushes his hands into his pockets and begins pacing the room. I wait for him to say something.

As he paces, he begins to explain everything Sherlock has been up to the past three years. The takedown of Moriarty’s network, both lawfully and not. Being captured and tortured by the criminal networks he accidentally unearthed along the way. Mycroft's rescue of him; I bet he loved that. Being the rescuer of his baby brother.

“Only, I called Sherlock back early.” He continues, “I had been keeping tabs on you and decided that it was time for Sherlock to come back to London. Before we’d caught the final piece of the network.”

I’m stunned. I knew Sherlock had been hunting down the network whilst he was away, but for some reason, I had been picturing rather more comfortable living arrangements than the ones Mycroft described.

“So, who’s left?” I ask, glancing up at the clock. It’s eight-thirty. 

“Colonel Sebastian Moran. Moriarty’s right-hand man.” A familiar voice calls through the open doorway. I didn’t notice him come back. He looks almost nonchalant leaning against the frame, yet I can tell he’s anything but.

“Yes. Well, we have you under 24-hour surveillance. We think he may try and target you, as he knows you’re close to Sherlock.”

“He will almost definitely try and target you. Which is why we’re going to move you to a safer location.” Sherlock says, finally making his way across the room and throwing himself into the chair once more.

“No.” I say resolutely.

Mycroft’s eyebrows raise higher than I ever thought possible. His hands clench in his pockets. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me Mycroft. I’m not moving. Baker Street is my home and I’ve been away far too long. I’m not going anywhere.” I notice Sherlock smirk briefly behind his hands. He’s loving this- of course he is. Someone standing up to his brother.

“That’s simply ludicrous John. You’d be much safer if-“

“I would be much safer, Mycroft, if you’d taken Moran out before bringing Sherlock back.” I interrupt, causing Sherlock to snort sightly. “This is your mess, you can sort it out. I’m not moving.”

Mycroft stands there in disbelief, trying to work out if I’m being serious. I am. I’m also being stupid, I know that, but I don’t want to live in an unfamiliar house again. I want to be at home. Where I belong. Where we both belong.

“Now, if you don’t mind I’d like to speak to Sherlock alone”

Mycroft stands there for a moment, unsure of how to react. He’s not used to people telling him what to do. Normally I would be slightly more rational, talk this out and devise a plan to keep the two of us safe- but I am so angry. I try and act calm on the outside, just enough to make Mycroft uncomfortable, but inside rage rips through me. How dare he put us both in danger. He should know better.

“You heard him,” Sherlock says, standing up. Mycroft glares into his eyes for a moment before sweeping out of the room. Sherlock pushes the door shut behind him.

Moving back over to his chair, Sherlock’s face turns solemn again. He slumps down, running his hands through his hair.

“That was stupid.” He finally says, closing his eyes.

“I know.”

His eyes don’t open.

“Sherlock? We’re gonna be fine. We’ve dealt with Moriarty, we can deal with Moran.”

He continues to lie there with his eyes closed. Anyone else would think that he’d fallen asleep but I know him. He’s searching his mind palace for something, anything, that we can use.

“Sherlock.” I raise my voice slightly to snap him out of it. His eyes fly open and fix onto mine.

“We’re gonna be fine.” He continues to stare at me for a moment and I can see the desperation behind his eyes. He doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I do either.

The anger has ebbed into sadness. If only the circumstances were different. We could ease back into normality, back to each other. Take the time to understand who we are now.

“Come sit with me.” I murmur. Slowly, he rises from his seat and perches on the edge of my bed, nervous. I shift over to make some space. He shuffles closer, leaning back into the headboard.

For a while, we just sit in each others company, both lost in our own thoughts. A thousand scenarios fly through my head- what we can do to find Moran, how to stop him. Nothing seems right.

“John?” Sherlock whispers into the space between us.

“Yeah?”

“Can I stay with you?” I smile at the question. Even after the past few days, he’s still scared I don't want him. That he will have to leave.

“I wouldn’t accept anything else” He smiles. After a short pause, he begins to speak quickly, the way he does when he’s on a case.

“We’ll have to lure him to us. That’s the only way. We have to make the first move and get him to show his cards.”

“Ok,” I reply. It makes sense really, bringing him onto our turf- playing on our terms.

“Not now. You’re not ready yet. When you have your strength back. Then it will all be over.” Sherlock seems to be talking to himself more than anything. Reassuring himself. I let him.

He begins to scheme next to me. Brainstorming ideas and plans, then scrapping them and starting again. Most of the time he monologues, simply thinking out loud to fill the silence. Occasionally I point out a flaw or ask a question. Mostly, I just let him speak. It’s comforting to hear him think again. It feels more like it used to.

At some point, he slips his hand into mine. Neither of us says anything about it. I give him a slight squeeze of acknowledgement, then carry on listening to him think.

Time passes as we just talk, slowly forming a solid plan. I never want to leave this moment, just sitting with him, hand in hand. Together, ready to face the world. Ready to face anything.


	24. Blueberry Tart

**3rd October 2015**

**(Mycroft)**

"This Tagliolini is just exquisite." Harrison marvels. "How did you find this place?”

"I know the owner. He's a very old friend." I smile, pushing my empty plate back. I don't mention that he's a retired operative.

We are surrounded by a low rumble of chatter from the nearby tables. Clinks of forks against plates break through every so often, along with the gentle swishing of the kitchen door.

"Can I interest you in dessert?" I ask once Harrison finishes his meal.

"I wish I could but I'm positively stuffed, sir."

"Please, call me Mycroft." I smile. The dinner had been my suggestion. A break from the stressful environment that is my office. Harrison had accepted without batting an eyelid.

"Okay- Mycroft." He smiles back at me. "What is the plan next? For finding Moran?" He asks, folding his napkin in front of him.

"Now now, no office talk whilst we are enjoying our lovely dinner. At least wait until during coffee." I wink at him clumsily. Not my strong suit I must say. Harrison smiles and nods, gesturing for a waiter.

"Two coffees please-"

"And a ricotta and blueberry tart," I interject.

"Very well sir." The waiter says and walks briskly away.

"So, Harrison. Tell me about yourself. It seems we've known each other so long yet I don't seem to know the first thing about you." Pointless small talk. I could simply deduce everything I wanted to know, yet I feel as if I must make the effort.

"Well, I grew up here in London, read history and politics at Oxford..."

He keeps talking but I stop listening. I'll remember it if I need to at a later date. My brain drifts into abstract thought, wondering where Moran could be hiding. No other case has got under my skin like this. I lie awake at night just wondering where he could be and kicking myself for letting Sherlock make contact with John so early. I don't regret bringing him back- he needed to come home. His actions were beginning to attract unwanted attention from 'acquaintances' overseas. Frankly, he was driving himself into the ground. He had become so determined on his goal that he never would have felt it was safe enough to come home. He needed an excuse. Still, I should have made sure we had Moran first.

"So that's me in a nutshell." Harrison beams at me. I smile back, making it seem as if I've been listening.

"What about yourself?"

The waiter returns and places the cups in front of us. I immediately take a sip to avoid the question, even though there's no sugar.

"Oh, you already know so much about me." I try and wave him off.

"Not enough." He takes a sip. "You and your brother are very close." He adds.

I almost spit out my tart. Half choking, half laughing I reply; "Sherlock and I? Hardly. We have a.... mutual agreement. I watch his back and he helps me from time to time. As much as I hate to admit it he is rather clever- and prepared to do the legwork. It comes in useful."

"You seem to care about him a lot."

I pause for a moment before answering, my coffee perched on the edge of my lips. "Yes, I rather seem to- don't I."

"What are you going to do about him?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Find Moran," I say enigmatically. Truth is, I can't tell him because I don't know. We don't even know where Moran might be, let alone any way to contact him. He may not even care about Sherlock and John for all I know. He may be dead. He could already be here. I don't know. I hate not knowing.

“John will come around. They’ll move to a safe-house, I’ll ensure it.” I add. John is prone to defiant outbursts. He is, understandably, upset. However, he’s not stupid. Eventually, he’ll agree to move. 

“May I ask something?” Harrison poses, drinking deeply from his cup. 

“Of course.”

“Do you have any idea where Moran is? Anywhere we can start?” 

I ponder the question a moment. It certainly seems like a loaded one, which, coming from anyone else, would seem to challenge my competency. Yet, coming from Harrison it doesn’t feel as such. 

“No. We haven’t been able to track Moran since Moriarty died. It seems as if he’s completely fallen off the grid.” I pause, taking another sip of coffee, “That, or he’s dead.” 

That is more wishful thinking than anything else. I am fairly convinced that if he were dead, someone would have noticed. A man like that would have had enemies.

Harrison seems to contemplate this a moment. I wait for him to think it through, content to sip at my coffee silently. 

“It would seem a shame, then, to stick your brother in a safe-house when there may be no need. It would probably drive him crazy.” 

Of course it would. Sherlock can’t sit still for five minutes let alone days on end. Putting him in a safe-house would e like putting a cheetah in a cage. Yet, there seems little other choice. Unless- 

Unable to help itself my mouth pulls into a smile. Harrison notices.

"What is it?" He asks, placing his coffee back onto its dish and leaning forward slightly.

"I've just had an idea. A way to trick Moran and keep Sherlock safe." I stand, pulling out some notes and leaving them on the table. "Come on, we've got work to do." Harrison quickly follows, only stopping to pick up his briefcase from under the table.

As I walk, I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial Sherlock's number. He answers after two sets of beeps.

"What do you want.”

"I've got a plan.”


	25. Circles

**4th October 2015**

**(John)**

“I’m sorry Mycroft couldn't be here, he has other engagements. He trusted that I was capable to deliver the message.” The man at the foot of my bed says, holding a briefcase in one hand and a coffee in the other. “My name’s Harrison. I’m Mycroft’s assistant.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say, shuffling to sit upright. Sherlock hovers next to me, very obviously wanting to help but refraining himself for my sake. Once I’m up, he stops and sits back down, closing his eyes behind his hands.

“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you, Dr Watson.” I nod slightly in response. “The idea is that we take you both to 221B. We’ll make it look as if you’re alone, however, in reality, you’ll be surrounded by security. We plan to lure Moran out by making him think that it’s business as usual.” Harrison pauses, then adds a “Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe.” As an almost afterthought. 

I look over at Sherlock but he hasn’t moved. I can tell he doesn’t like it but he hardly has anything better to add. It seems more appropriate for us to be back at Baker street rather than holed up somewhere. 

“When?” I ask, folding my hands in front of me. The plan seems solid enough. Quick and easy, at any rate.

“As soon as possible,” Harrison answers, adjusting his footing. He licks his lips nervously.

“Not until John is discharged.” Sherlock finally pipes up, still not moving or opening his eyes.

“Mycroft insisted-“

“You can tell Mycroft that we’re not moving him until the doctors say he can move. He’s not strong enough yet.”

Harrison pauses, unsure of what to do.

“Thank you, Harrison.” I say, trying to make him feel more at ease. He smiles a little then turns to leave.

“Someone will call to go through the finer details closer to the time.” For a moment he hovers by the door as if he’s going to say something else. He seems to decide against it, however. Once he’s gone Sherlock opens his eyes and moves back over to my bed.

“So what do you think?” I ask, shuffling over to make room next to me. Sherlock slides in, gently resting his hand on the top of my thigh. He’s still acting as if I might break at any moment.

He sighs, “It’s better than being hidden away somewhere. Moran will probably try something, but we’ll be prepared and ready.” His warm fingers begin to brush circles in the fabric of my pyjamas.

One thing I have figured out in the last few days is that Sherlock loves contact. Whenever we’re alone he stays as close as he can, pressing his skin to mine. Small acts to remind me that he’s still there, watching over me. It gives me a warm feeling inside, deep in my chest. Knowing that he wants to be close.

“What are we going to do after he’s gone?” I ask. Sherlock seems surprised by the question. His fingers stop brushing for a fraction of a second, before carrying on their pattern.

“Whatever you like. We don’t have to go back to how it was if you don’t want. I know this is confusing for you.”

I turn to face him, dislodging his fingers from my thigh.

“I’m not confused,” I say. He frowns, turning onto his side.

“But you said, that day when I visited you. You said you couldn’t go back to the way things were.”

“That was then. I was confused, Sherlock. You’d just come back from the dead. I was supposed to be with someone else and you turned up expecting your life to snap back to normal. For us to be together after three years of believing you were never coming back. I couldn’t trust you anymore.”

As I continue Sherlock takes my hand in his, entwining our fingers together. “It took a while for everything to sink in. I overreacted. Well, no. I reacted. But that doesn't mean that my decision hasn't changed. All I want is for us to go back to how we were before. Although, maybe not completely.” I squeeze his hand to make my point. He smiles and squeezes back.

“I’m not leaving again.” He whispers, his breath tickling my face.

I move slowly so that I’m also lying on my side, facing him. His face is creased with worry and age. He looks much older than before, even though it’s only been three years. I guess that’s a side effect of hunting down the bad guys. I wonder how much that face has seen in all these years apart. What it’s had to deal with. I dread to think. I want to hold him, protect him from the horrors he’s been through. Those years alone, being beaten and living amongst criminals.

He moves closer, wrapping his arms around me as if he knows what I’m thinking. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, so I place a hand in his curls to let him know that it’s okay. They’re slightly greasy from days of sitting in his chair, refusing to leave and shower.

He nuzzles his face into my chest and I can feel his warm breath spreading over me. For the first time in years, I feel like I belong somewhere. All I want is for him to be here, curled around me. I have wanted it for a very long time. 

We lie there for what feels like hours. At some point, a nurse comes in to check on me. He smiles when he sees us, but doesn't say anything. I look down to see if Sherlock has noticed but he’s fast asleep, drooling slightly. The nurse looks quickly through his notes then gestures that he’ll come back later. I gratefully mouth ‘Thank you’. This is probably the first time Sherlock has slept in a while, it’s the least I can do to keep him asleep. 

I watch him for a while, still running my fingers through his hair. I think about all the times we should have done this before. All the missed opportunities. If only one of us had said something sooner. If only I didn’t wait until I thought he was dead. Maybe things would have turned out differently. If only I hadn't been so scared of admitting that I was hopelessly in love with my best friend. If only.

Now, I won’t hold back. I lost him once, I won’t do it again. This time, I’ll hold him close and tell him how much he means to me. This time, nothing will be able to tear us apart.


	26. Welcome home

**15th October 2015**

**(John)**

I stand in front of the black glossy door of 221B, Sherlock’s hand in mine. I haven't been back here in three years. Not since that day. I couldn't face being here without him; his presence breathing life into the place. Leaving his various experiments on the counters, firing bullets into the wall. It didn't feel right.

“Ready?” Sherlock asks. I nod slightly and begin to walk forward. He opens the door, revealing those familiar brown stairs. They creak as we walk up them, slightly more so than normal. We walk slowly- I’m still not fully healed. The doctors discharged me on the basis that I was strong enough to go home but I don’t have anywhere near my old strength.

As we reach the top Sherlock drops my hand and moves into the sitting room, dumping our bags onto the floor and clearing away the remnants of his last experiment.

“Mrs Hudson!” He calls, “We’re back!”

I stay hovering in the doorway. 221B is still home after all this time, however, it feels almost tainted by the time we’ve spent away. The last time I was here Sherlock had just ‘died’ in front of me. Now we’ve walked in together as if nothing has changed, yet everything is different.

Sherlock bustles around for a bit longer, before turning back to look at me. He stretches his hand out towards me, wordlessly asking me to come in. I oblige, taking his hand and squeezing it once, before letting it fall back to his side. Slowly, I walk around the room, amazed at how little has changed. Mrs Hudson mustn't have been here much either.

Not five minutes later she bursts into the room holding a tray of tea.

“Oh, John!” She cries, hastily placing the tray on the table and throwing her arms around me. I hug her back, ignoring the twinging pain from my ribs.

“It’s good to see you, Mrs Hudson,” I mutter into her hair. Without warning, she pulls back and slaps my shoulder- not hard enough to hurt but enough to surprise me.

“What was that for?!” I protest, ignoring Sherlock smiling smugly from the kitchen.

“Why did you never visit? I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” She exclaims. “You could have at least called.”

“I’m sorry Mrs Hudson. I should have- it just became harder and harder…” I can’t finish my sentence. I don't have an excuse. She’s right, I should have at least called her to see how she was getting on.

“Oh never mind. You’re here now, both of you.” She draws me back into a hug.

Once she lets go I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the back of the door. My old one still hangs there, ripped. I make a mental note to get rid of it later.

“So, how have you been?” I ask, taking a seat on the sofa and pouring myself a cup of tea from the tray.

“Oh you know, same old. Much better now I’ve got my boys back.” She beams across the room at me. Sherlock makes his way in from the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea and plonking himself into his chair. I can tell he’s happy to be back.

“I’ll go and sort out the upstairs room for you boys. Let you get settled in.” She barely finishes her sentence before Sherlock interjects.

“Thank you but we won’t be needing the upstairs one.” He speaks so calmly, barely looking up from his tea. I smile inside.

Mrs Hudson raises her eyebrow and gives me a knowing smile, before disappearing downstairs. I’m grateful that she doesn't make a fuss. God knows we’ll have enough of that in the coming weeks.

“Won’t be needing the upstairs one?” I ask, smirking into my mug.

“Well, I assumed we wouldn't. I mean if you still want it I can go and tell her-“

“I don’t.” It’s funny watching Sherlock squirm slightly. As soon as he realises I’m taking the piss he shoots me a friendly glare. Slowly, everything is shifting back to normality.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, placing his tea back onto the table and walking over to his violin. Gently, he plucks a couple of the strings and begins to inspect it over for any damage.

“Ok. A little sore. I’m just happy to finally be back and out of that bloody hospital.”

He smiles and begins to tuning the violin, delicately adjusting the tightness of the strings. Hopefully, he’ll play later. I’ve missed hearing his music.

“Right, well I’m going to take a shower. I need to feel more human.” Sherlock nods as I stand and make my way over to the bathroom, grabbing my bag along the way.

The bathroom looks the same as always, as if it’s a photo of what used to be. A thin layer of dust covers the surfaces like a blanket- undisturbed for years. Warm water bursts out of the showerhead when I turn it on, splattering over my skin. For a while I just stand in the stream, feeling the weight I’ve been carrying all these years simply melt away.

After a while, the water starts to turn cold. I turn off the stream and dry myself; getting dressed into the shirt and jeans Mycroft brought from Mary’s. The fabric sticks slightly to my damp skin, peeling slightly whenever I move. I leave my bag by the sink, not quite ready to venture into Sherlock's bedroom. Although, I suppose it’s ours now.

When I return there’s dinner sat waiting on the kitchen table. Only Chinese take-out, but it tastes so much better than the hospital food. Sherlock informs me that he’s already eaten, which I’m not convinced about, then picks up his laptop and begins typing away. I don't ask what he’s doing; I can only assume he’s working on finding Moran. It’s not as if we’re accepting cases anytime soon. 

After ten minutes or so he throws it into my chair in frustration, flinging himself up to stand by the window; dramatic as ever. 

I finish eating and walk back to the sofa slowly, ribs still aching from Mrs Hudson's well-intentioned hug. I’ll take some more pain killers before I go to bed. 

As I’m about to sit down, Sherlock starts playing. Each soft note falls off the strings and floats through the air, dancing like a feather. I can do nothing but stand and watch him. I’ve always loved his music, but tonight is something different. The music seems to reach through me, giving back to me a part of my soul I thought was long gone.

Sherlock notices that I’m standing there mesmerised and smiles, walking closer to me, still playing all the while. I don’t recognise the song.

“I composed it. Whilst I was away. It kept me going. Well, this- and the thought of coming home to you.”

I have no idea how to react. No words come close to describing how I feel inside- this warmth and comfort rushing through me.

He keeps coming closer as he plays, not dropping a single note. I stand mesmerised, unable to move or breathe with the beauty of it all. As he finally reaches me, the song ends. The last few notes seem to echo in my ears, hauntingly beautiful.

Sherlock delicately places the instrument behind me on the sofa, before placing a hand on the back of my neck. I know what’s going to happen before it does. I long for it, tempted to close the gap between us as fast as possible, but I resist. He pauses, hovering just in front of my face.

“Welcome home, John Watson.”

Then our lips meet. 


	27. Party favour

**17th October 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

Our sitting room is filled with people. Molly and Lestrade are sharing the sofa, Mrs Hudson adorns John’s armchair. Mike Stamford is engaged in conversation with her whilst he sits in my chair; something that I am not overly pleased about, however, I will put up with it for John’s sake. 

John is perched on the edge of his chair, avidly listening to whatever Lestrade is telling him. In that moment he is breathtaking, simply in his act of being. I lean against the kitchen doorframe, just watching him, wishing I could walk over and kiss him. I could, if I wanted, but something tells me that John would not be best pleased. 

His face is soft and relaxed, more so than I remember him ever being. The usual knot of tension in his shoulder is gone and his smile is genuine. He is, for the first time in years, completely happy. 

He laughs, his reaction shortly echoed by Molly. Lestrade must have made a joke. It is freeing, to watch him laugh. It reminds me of post-chase giggles in the hallway, adrenaline flowing through our veins. I have ached to return to those moments, longed for everything to be normal again. Or, as normal as we can be. Our lifestyle isn't exactly that of the average Londoner. 

I don’t realise how long I’ve been watching him until John turns to look at me, flashing me a lopsided smile. I return it, finally pulling my eyes away to give him a small amount of privacy. 

The party was Mrs Hudson’s idea. She simply came into the flat last night and announced that we were celebrating. Outwardly I protested, but inside I knew she was right. John is home and safe- or at least, as safe as he can be. He insisted that the celebrations were unnecessary, gentlemanly as always. I can tell that he's secretly happy though. He enjoys having the sitting room filled with people; it distracts him from how empty it’s been. 

Personally, I can’t wait for the flat to be empty again- for us to be alone once more. I am patient though, because I know how much this means to John, even if he doesn’t. 

Molly calls me over, her voice gently breaking into my daydream. I perch on the arm of the sofa, positioned just besides John. 

“Congratulations.” She smirks, fitting her eyes from between myself and John. 

“Ah. Thank you. I assume John-“ The look John gives me cuts me short. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed in confusion, his head tilted gently towards Molly. Evidently he hasn’t said anything, which, to be fair, was only to be expected. We haven't discussed the matter yet. 

“Oh don’t be silly Sherlock, it’s obvious. I can see it all over your face.” 

John blushes slightly, staring down at his feet. I flash Molly a warm smile and place my hand between John’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” I reply, watching Lestrade glance at my hand. The realisation that crosses his face is almost comical. 

“You bastards.” He exclaims, a smile breaking across his face like glass cracking. “I’m glad you finally stopped dancing around each other, it was getting rather boring.”

“Yes, well. Seems everyone knew but us.” John turns and smiles at me, and I brush my fingers against him in response. 

“I’m happy for you- both of you,” Molly says. She genuinely means it. 

***

I look up from my laptop at the sound of John cursing. 

“Are you okay?” I ask, ready to jump up at any moment. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just dropped a plate, that’s all.” I hear him muttering more curses under his breath as he sweeps up the pieces. I glance at my watch; 9:30 pm. Our guests left a few hours ago, leaving promises of meeting again soon. I secretly hoped it wasn't too soon.

I click the lid of my laptop shut. I’m not finding Moran today. Placing it on the table, I get up and join John in the kitchen. The ceramics clink together like wind chimes as he empties them into the bin. 

Slowly, as not to startle him, I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my chin on his head. I feel him tense slightly at the contact, then immediately relax. 

“I hate that you’re tall enough to do that.” He sighs. I chuckle, pulling him closer into my chest. 

“I had a lovely day. Thank you, I know you weren’t very keen” I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of his hair. 

“Mmmm. Anything for you.” I reply.

“I’m aware.” He laughs, placing the dustpan on the counter and holding my arms in his hands. 

His body feels so soft and small, deceptively light. Almost as if I could scoop him up and carry him around forever. 

“Sherlock?” I make a non-committal noise in response, focusing on the feeling of his hair brushing my cheeks. 

“I love you.” My heart skips a beat. Although I knew it, this feels like the first time either of us has said it for real. The first of many times to come. 

“I love you too.” With that he turns to face me, dislodging my arms. And then all of a sudden, we are kissing. 

His lips are soft and warm, pressed against mine. We move in perfect unison, breathing each other in. His arms curl around my back and into my hair, pulling gently at the curls. I push my hands down past his waist, as he sneaks his under my shirt. Tentatively I dip my fingers below his belt, waiting for him to pull away; to say it’s too much. When he doesn't, I push them further down, pulling him closer towards me.

John pulls away. For a second I think he’s going to walk away, to ask me what I was thinking. Instead, he looks me in the eye and begins to unbutton my shirt cautiously. His eyes ask if I’m okay with this, if I want to continue. In response, I lean down and kiss him again more roughly. Of course I do. I want nothing more.

I start walking back slowly, pulling John with me. I aim for the archway separating the kitchen from the bedroom, but overshoot and end up backing into the wall. John smiles under my lips and pushes me in the right direction. 

I open the door, flinging it open as much as I can. It bangs slightly against the wall, causing us both to giggle slightly. John pulls off the rest of my shirt, discarding it on the chair, before taking my hand and placing it under his own.

Without either of us uttering another word, the evening turns to bliss. 


	28. Buttercup bedsheets

**18th October 2015**

**(Sherlock)**

Soft light drips through the windows and pools onto the bed, staining the tangled sheets buttercup yellow. A crisp October chill settles over the room, its fingers reaching into every nook and cranny, stopping only at the protective barrier of bedding. Birds call to one another outside the open window, singing sweetly about the news of the morning. 

John’s eye’s flutter open, sleep clogging the corners of his vision. 

“Morning.” I half-whisper, rubbing my foot along the side of his leg. 

“Morning,” He says back, yawning. “Last night was…”

“I know.” I smile, watching as his face becomes a reflection of my own. 

Gently, I pull the top of the sheets closer to my chest. The biting fingers of cold have begun to grip my skin. Goosebumps prickle over my arms; my skin protesting about the temperature. 

John buries his face into my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer towards me. 

“We should have done this years ago.” He breathes, a slight chuckle rising in his throat. 

“We were idiots then.” I giggle back. I cannot imagine going back to our old lives- being Sherlock and John without really being Sherlock&John. It seems unbelievable that we left it this long to realise that we shouldn't be anything else. 

Gently, John pulls back slightly to look at me. He contemplates something for a moment, the words swilling in his mouth. 

“When did you know?” He asks, his eyes darting across my face. He seems almost nervous. I know what he means without having to ask. When did I know that he was the most brilliant man in the universe? That he was the only person capable of stealing my heart and running away with it?

“You killed a man after only knowing me for two days, then called me an idiot.” 

John smiles broadly and leans in to kiss me. He is warm against my lips. After a while, he pulls back and looks into my eyes, as if he’s trying to read the thoughts passing across my brain. 

“Irene Adler,” John replies to my unspoken question. “Apparently most people don’t get that jealous about their flatmates.” He laughs, running his hand down my thigh. 

I raise my eyebrows at him. “I told you, not my area.” I grin.

“I realise that now,” John replies, chuckling in response.

“No-one ever came close to you. The whole time I was away, all I could think about was coming home to you. Knowing that when I did-“ I turn the words over in my head, trying to find the right way to explain that all that kept me alive in those three years was the knowledge that when I came home, John would be there. He would see me, truly see me, in the way that I hadn't dared hope for in so long. Before then I had given up any hope of the life we have now. 

After a minute, I leave the sentence unfinished. He knows. I don’t need to spell it out for him. 

Without any apparent rhyme or reason, John smiles. No, he beams, seeming to remember something. 

“It was you!” He exclaims, jerking upright. His eyes are swimming with excitement and wonder, gazing down on me from above. 

I rise slowly to sit next to him. “What was me?” 

“There was a man who walked down my street every morning, dressed in a black coat. Your coat. It bugged me for ages; now I realise that it must have been you.” 

I look at him blankly. He seems so excited, like he’s solved some grand mystery. Slowly the excitement falls from his face as he realises that I have no idea what he’s talking about. 

“It wasn’t you.” He whispers, looking almost disappointed. 

Something clicks in my brain and I jump out of bed, practically running into the kitchen to where I left my phone the previous night. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John calls from behind me, scrambling to get up.

“Mycroft,” I say as he answers my call after the first ring. 

“Sherlock, what-“

“He’s here. In London. John saw someone watching him before I came back. It must have been him.” 

“Consider it sorted,” Mycroft replies curtly, then hangs up. 

I throw my phone on the sofa and pull John into my arms. He looks confused, his brain working slightly slower than my own. 

“Moran. He was probably watching you.” I explain, pulling away and walking into the kitchen. I flick the kettle on and take two mugs out of the cupboard, unable to stop the smile from spreading across my face. 

“Why are you so happy about this? Doesn't it mean that we’re in danger? Shouldn't we be doing something?” 

I can’t help myself. I grin back at him, unable to contain the excitement rising in my chest. 

“Don’t you see John? This means he's here, in London. This is the first lead we’ve managed to find. It means we can finally get him.” 

The words seep in through John’s skin, slowly making their way into his brain. Finally, he understands, returning the grin. 

“Now we can track him down.” He affirms.

“Exactly.” 


	29. Warning call

**21st October 2015**

**(Mycroft)**

Knowing that Moran is in London is proving to be no more helpful than not knowing if he was even alive. There are still no sightings of him anywhere, no disturbances which could even vaguely be related to him. It’s as if he’s a ghost. 

I sit in my office, watching the surveillance footage from outside of John and Mary’s flat. Sure enough, every morning a man dressed in a black heavyweight coat walks down the street, before disappearing into an alley. For all intents and purposes, the man looks like Sherlock. A little small, granted, but the coat and the hair look identical. 

Unfortunately, it seems as if the man knew exactly where the cameras would be, and walked in such a way that he never once showed his face. He’s being clever, playing on John’s subconscious enough to draw his attention. Evidently, he has a plan. 

I run the footage over and over again, desperately trying to see if there’s anything I’ve missed. Any clue that could tell us where he is now. 

I consider telling Sherlock and John to move to another location. To take them out of London for the time being. Yet, our plan still might work. Moran may fall into the trap of thinking that we’ve forgotten him. If he shows his hand first, we’ll have a chance at overturning him. Stumbling in the darkness is a dangerous place to be. 

Regardless, the two of them have enough of a security detail to be safe for now. If we find any more information, I’ll have them moved. For now, though, it’s best not to act rashly. We don’t need a repeat of last time. 

I sit for hours mulling over the information in front of me. One sighting, that’s all we have. Granted it was on multiple occasions, but one location nevertheless. Moran wanted John to see him. He wanted to mess with his head. Why?

I mull over the question, desperately trying to get into the mind of a man who is most likely mad. Why. 

Much more slowly than I’d like, the synapses begin to fire in my brain. Connections are made as my thoughts begin to spin round my head, devising possibilities. 

What if, Moran wanted John to remember him? If he were dressed any different he wouldn’t have. John’s subconscious registered the connection and filed it away for later processing. 

Why though? Why would he need John to remember? Though, of course, that must have been the entire point. For John to notice. Moran wouldn't have been able to keep tabs on John like that. He must have been watching more closely, using better surveillance equipment. We searched all of the nearby buildings, however. If he’d been there we’d know. 

No, the entire point of the exercise was to make John notice. To trigger a sequence of memories.

To let us know that Moran was here. 

That’s it. Moran wanted us to know that he was watching. He was laughing at us. 

What is he planning? Where is he hiding? 

He’d need to keep up to date with them to know what we know. He’d have to have access-

Like a bomb exploding in my head, the realisation hits me. I stand up so quickly that my chair falls out from behind me and clatters to the floor. I know exactly where Moran is. Where he has been this entire time. I’m so stupid, I should have seen it earlier. I should have known.

“Oh my lord.” 

I grab my phone to warn Sherlock- but it’s too late. My head connects with something hard and my vision fades to blackness.


	30. Gift wrapped despair

**22nd October 2015**

**6:08 AM**

**(John)**

“John.” 

My name floats across the room in a gentle whisper, the letters falling over themselves and drifting weightlessly through the room. I barely register them in my sleep-filled mind; only vaguely aware of a soft brushing against my cheek. 

“John,” The word dances again, louder this time. More deliberate and determined. My eyes flicker open, still blurry with dreams. 

Sherlock stands over me, fully clothed. His hand brushes over my cheek and he looks softly over my face. I draw my hand up sluggishly onto his, cupping the knuckles in my palm.

“Mycroft called, they’ve found a body. I’m going to take a look.” He finishes the sentence with a light kiss on my forehead, then gently pulls back. His hand trails, desperately prolonging the contact. 

I reach to take his hand fully but it is gone out of the door like a whirlwind.

I can feel the fingers of sleep crawling once more up my skin, digging into my eyes and brain. I succumb, falling deep into its clutches once more. 

***

When I wake, the bed next to me is painfully cold and empty. I stretch my hand out over the sheets, desperately grasping at the memories lay there. For a while I just lie with my arm outstretched, wondering over the nights spent here, in this bed, and the nights that are to come. I smile at the realisation that this, these sleepless nights of skin on skin, are forever. No-one can take them from us anymore. No-one would dare try. Soon, Sherlock will be back, hopefully with the news that our fugitive has been found. Soon, the threat ruling our lives will be gone and then we’ll have the rest of our lives for sleepless nights and hazy mornings. Soon. 

I groan slightly as I swing my legs out of bed, rubbing at my eyes in the process. The floor is cold beneath my feet and there’s a chill in the air, biting at my skin. I pull on some clothes and head into the kitchen, a small yawn escaping my lips. The flat is hauntingly empty without Sherlock in it- the air feels too still and calm. The place is missing the usual hum of restless movement. 

Out of the window, the street is calm and bright. People wander on the pavement below, curls of dragons breath emerging from their mouths in the cold air. It’s still early, the street is mostly empty. I smile, falling back from the window with the intention of making tea. Today could be the day everything changes and the whirlwind that is John and Sherlock whips once more through the streets of London. Today could be the day that one storm ends and the other begins. 

I am so lost in my thoughts that it takes me a while to notice the box on the table. It’s large and flat, the kind that expensive clothes come in. The outside is pale brown and a singular blue ribbon adorns the top right-hand corner. I hesitate before opening it, carefully lifting the lid and peeling off the bow. 

It takes me a while to identify the object inside. The fabric is a familiar midnight blue, folded carefully into the box. With shaking hands I unfold it, dislodging a piece of paper hidden within. I pick it up, my fingers barely grasping it as if it might break at any second. 

In harsh letters, scrawled in the middle of the paper, is an address. Underneath, a pair of initials stand brazenly against the white background. SM. 

My heart sinks in my chest, skipping several beats. I know what I need to do. There is no question. I am perfectly aware that just because I hold Sherlock’s scarf in front of me, does not mean that Moran has him. It is more than likely a trick. Yet, I know that despite the very high probability that it is a trap, I will go anyway. If there is any chance, no matter how slight, that Sherlock is in danger- I will always go. Moran knows this and is using it to play me like a fiddle. 

Today is the day. The deciding factor. Either Sherlock and I walk away from this together, a whole lifetime in front of us, or we don’t. This could be the day that everything ends in all the wrong ways, if it hasn't already. 

I don’t delay. Mere seconds pass between memorising the address and running out of the door, barely stopping to shove my gun into my belt. 

Today is certainly the day. 

***

It takes half an hour to run to the address on the card. I consider phoning Mycroft, but realise that Sherlock was meant to be meeting him earlier. If Sherlock is gone, then Mycroft probably is too. 

The building is an abandoned warehouse. It stands proud in a line of booming businesses, not caring that it is empty and unused. When I arrive, I take a moment to catch my breath, analysing my surroundings as I do so. There are plenty of exits, no worry about being blocked in. 

There’s a door to the side of the building, partially hidden by unruly hedgerows and bags of rubbish. I pull it open as silently as possible, keeping my body flat against the wall next to it. Nothing moves within, so I slowly edge myself round the frame, staying flush with the wall as much as possible. 

Immediately in front of me is a staircase. It partially hides me from the rest of the room, but other than that the warehouse is unusually empty. There are no boxes, no discarded piles of rubbish. It’s worryingly open, overshadowed only by a small viewing platform at the end of the room. Sherlock would be able to tell me exactly what had occurred here, and why it was now suddenly so open. 

The room isn't quite empty. In the exact centre of the room is a figure, tied and bound to a chair. Though it’s dark, my eyes are adjusting quickly and I can tell immediately that the figure is Sherlock, positioned deliberately in the most vulnerable part of the room. As much as I want to, I don't run over to him immediately. I draw out my gun, flicking the safety off and clutching it in both hands. I am certain now, more than anything, that this is a trap. I am meant to walk straight over to Sherlock and into Moran’s sticky grasp.

I carefully look around the warehouse. It is deceivingly empty; no bodyguards are stationed at the doors or protecting Sherlock, he’s the only person I can see. 

Swallowing my pride, I stride purposefully towards the centre of the room. There’s nothing I can do at this point. If I leave, Sherlock will inevitably die at the hands of this madman. If I stay, we might both die. We might not. The only thing to do is to dive headfirst into the danger and figure out the details later. True Sherlock and John style. 

Sherlock barely looks up as I walk over. He knew I was here before I came into the open, he always does. Instead, he’s focused on the viewing platform in front of him. It looks as if it used to be a small office, surrounded by windows to look down on the rest of the floor. Now, the glass has been smashed out but there is no sign of the debris. 

Sherlock’s head is bleeding slowly, the half clotted liquid slowly sliding down his face. I easily untie the bindings at his wrists and ankles. He makes no effort to stand, merely glancing over and whispering to me. 

“John-“

“I know.” I breathe back. There is the unspoken agreement that it will not be this easy. Something- someone, is waiting for us. Watching. 

“I think he’s up there; I’m not sure though, I didn't see him.” Sherlock barely breathes back, still glancing at the viewing platform, desperately trying to see. I understand now, the reason for the empty warehouse. Sherlock can’t see. He doesn't know what Moran’s plan is, we’ve been left even more in the dark. 

Sherlock slowly stands, placing his hand on my forearm and edging towards the door. There is nothing else to do but follow what Moran expects of us. We need to see what his plan is before we can react. 

No sooner have we moved two steps, than the sound of a gun being cocked rings out in the darkness. A familiar voice follows it, dull and heavy:

“Well, you’ve probably figured out that I’m not going to let you leave.” It falls downwards from the platform above us. Sherlock was right; Moran is hiding in the darkness of the old office, just watching. Waiting.

“I wanted to see what you would do given the chance to escape. You’re both so incredibly boring.” 

The voice above carries inclinations of Moriarty’s insanity. It’s subtle, no-where near crazy enough to mimic him, but the inclination is there. 

Sherlock sags beside me. He knows something I don’t, his brain working at one hundred miles an hour. His fingers brush lightly over my own, before drifting away. He pulls himself straight in mock confidence, staring defiantly towards the shrouded figure. 

“Of course it’s you. Congratulations on fooling me. It is a privilege not held by many.” Sherlock goads the shadowed Moran. He’s trying to play him back, cultivating overconfidence.

“Why thank you, Mr Holmes. I must say, I wasn’t expecting both the Holmes’ to be quite so oblivious. Mycroft really was smitten with me- well, until I battered him over the head.” There’s a small laugh in his voice as Moran steps forward, out of the shadows. He walks with confident ease, holding a handgun aloft and pointing it directly at Sherlock’s head. 

The shadow mask falls away. I stifle a small gasp as Harrison walks cockily towards us, a smirk perched on the edge of his lips. 

“Don’t worry your prettily little head, he’s still alive. I needed to get to you first.” Moran calls, shifting his weight to lean gently against one of the windowless panes. 

“Do I even need to ask why we’re here?” Sherlock shoots back, letting an almost invisible knot of tension from his shoulders. Moran seems mostly focused on him, his eyes flitting uncontrollably over Sherlock's face and body. He wants to see whether he’s provoking a reaction. 

With the blessing of Moran seeming indifference to me, I slowly begin to raise my gun, hoping I can get good sight before he realises what I’m doing. 

“You don’t, but we should probably let poor John know what’s going on. He’s a bit slow isn't he?” Moran’s face is fixed in a smirk, but his eyes begin to fill with unbuffered rage. 

“Oh, and John? You can point that gun at me all you want, it’s not going to make a difference. It’s not him I’m here for.” His eyes don’t move from Sherlock's face, but his hand deftly sweeps to fix the gun on me. 

I steady mine so it’s pointed at Moran’s chest, but I know he’ll pull the trigger before I can even try. He’s a professionally trained sniper. I’m good with a gun, but no-where near the level that he is. Still, it makes me feel safer to know that at least there’s a chance. 

“You see, little John, Sherlock here took something away from me and now it’s time he gave it back.” The smirk turns into a scowl, the unfathomed rage seeping out of his eyes and down his cheeks. 

“Moriarty is dead- I can’t bring him back-“ Sherlock begins, his voice steady and calm. I can see through his facade. He’s trying to convince Moran that he knows exactly what’s going on and that he has a plan. In reality, Sherlock’s mind is spinning trying to grasp what Moran is trying to do. There’s enough of Moriarty’s crazy in him to make him that bit unpredictable. 

“I know.” Moran snarls, the rage taking almost completely over. “I know he won’t come back. You took him from me.” He pauses, seeming to compose himself a little. A small smile pushes its way onto his face, past the anger and thirst which drips from his pores. This smile is dangerous, crawling further across his face.

“You took mine, now I’m taking yours.” Moran turns, for the first time, to look at me.


	31. Flightpath

**22nd October 2015**

**5:58 AM**

**(Sherlock)**

The vibrations from my phone sink deeply into the bedside table, jerking me awake. I answer immediately, barely stopping to check the caller ID. 

“Mycroft?” I murmur, untangling my other hand from around John's waist, careful not to wake him. 

“It’s Harrison, Mycroft asked me to phone you.” I grunt in reply and make my way out of the bedroom, mindful to be as silent as possible. John is a deep sleeper, but I don't want to take any chances. 

Small rays of sunshine are breaking through the windows, easily pushing their way through the glass. They reflect gently off my bare skin, making it glow softly. 

“What have you found?” I ask when I am safely out of earshot. 

“A body.” He replies, “In a warehouse not far from here. It fits Moran's description. Mycroft wanted to let you know, he’s sending someone to check it out now.” 

“No need, I’ll go. I want to see it myself.” I interrupt, already looking around for my clothes, discarded in piles across the floor. 

“Mycroft explicitly said-“ 

“Oh never mind Mycroft, I’ll find out where it is regardless of whether you help me. You know who I am. You might as well make my life a little easier.” 

Harrison pauses briefly before conceding. 

“Okay, I’ll send you the address. There will be backup following you, just in case.” 

“Thank you,” I say, for once glad at the closeness between him and my brother. Anyone else wouldn't have given in. Harrison, however, knows completely that I am a man of my word. He would rather protect me, for Mycroft's sake, than do what he’s told. 

“Good luck.” He says before hanging up, not bothering to wait for a reply. Soon after, I receive a text containing the address. It is a warehouse not that far away; if it is truly Moran inside, then he must have been getting close. 

***

An hour later, dressed and with the ghost of John’s hand on my own, I turn the corner into the street containing the warehouse. The road is silent, no sign yet of the backup that Harrison promised. 

I wait and watch the building for a while, trying to figure out why Moran would be here. It’s nothing like the dramatic locations that Moriarty had such a preference for. 

Nothing here is out of the ordinary. I begin walking towards the warehouse, determined to get a better look at it before I go inside. 

Suddenly, I feel a small prick at the back of my neck. I reach around and pull out the sleep dart from where it sank into my skin, clinging for dear life. Based on the pain levels of its impact and the angle at which I pulled it out, it was shot from up high at a moderate distance. Far enough away that I won’t be able to see the shooter before I pass out. 

Of course, I’m not sure what else I expected. I should have known that this was a trap. Mycroft was probably fed false information. Moran wanted me here, to come onto his turf. I should have been more careful. Two months earlier, I would have been. I would never have fallen for such an obvious trap. Yet now, I wishfully hoped that it would be easy. That Moran would hand himself over and we would be safe at last. 

My eyes begin to blur and my knees buckle underneath me. Grey pavement fills my limited vision as my body hits the floor. 

***

The first thing I’m aware of when I come to is the room around me. It is distinctly empty, very few markings and remnants to work out anything meaningful. From what I can see, it is a large warehouse-type building, one that’s not been used for real business in years. The ceiling is filled with cobwebs, indicating that there has been no ventilation through here in at least a month, judging by their density. There is a small viewing platform at one end of the room, the windows surrounding it missing completely. The edges look slightly sharp, meaning that the windows were broken rather than removed, yet there is no glass anywhere. 

The rest of the room is empty, save the staircase which leads to the platform. There are five exits in total, one at each end of the building and three smaller doors dotted either side of its length. 

I can’t tell anything useful about where I am, other than by looking at the structure of the building. Moran must have had it cleared out, removing every last piece of glass and discarded furniture to prevent me from making deductions. He is a clever man, I must grant him that. I can only hope that he’s not clever enough. 

There’s no sign of Moran or any of his cronies. As far as I can see, I am the only one here. I count the minutes pass by in my head, whilst making an effort to let my captor know I’m awake. No-one comes forward and I realise that I am not the focus of attention here. I’m the bait. 

I take a moment to asses myself. My head is bleeding slowly, the blood taking its time to clot. My wrists and ankles are bound to a chair with rope, its rough surface cutting slightly into my skin. I notice that my scarf is missing, however, other than that, I appear not to be too damaged. 

No more than an hour passes by before John silently makes his way into the room through one of the smaller doors. A small scuff of a shoe against concrete sounds out from above me, on the viewing platform. Moran must be watching. I don’t take my eyes off the platform as John carefully walks over, searching for any clue as to what Moran is doing. 

“John-“ I begin to warn, barely daring to make a sound. I don’t know what’s going on and I hate it. I can’t figure out what Moran is trying to do. I am full of fear and worry for John; it grips me tight and squeezes until I can barely breathe. 

“I know.” He whispers back. Of course he does, he’s John. He is amazing, perfect and knows exactly what I’m thinking, as always. When we get out of here, I will remind him just how amazing he is. 

“I think he’s up there; I’m not sure though, I didn't see him.” As I speak I begin to stand, deciding to test the boundaries of this situation. It is obvious that we won’t be allowed to leave, but I need to know just how long Moran is planning to wait. I need him to reveal himself so I can work out what to do next. 

My fingers reach out and seek Johns arm, gently brushing against the fabric separating his skin from mine. His body hums with adrenaline, ready to move at a moments notice. A small smile ghosts my face- he’s missed this; the danger-filled days and chase filled nights. It’s his drug. His addiction. 

Slowly, I move towards the door, guessing we won’t move far before Moran stops us. I can only hope that, like his predecessor, he feels the need to talk and jibe before getting round to the matter at hand. 

Two steps; that’s all it takes for Moran’s voice to fall from above us, stirring the stale air like soup.

“Well, you’ve probably figured out that I’m not going to let you leave.” A pause, “I wanted to see what you would do given the chance to escape. You’re both so incredibly boring.” 

I release a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, only to stop altogether when I finally catch up with my brain. That voice- it hits me like a punch. I should have seen this, I should have known. Mycroft should have known. 

It’s the same voice that wished me good luck, of all things. The one that has been following me for weeks, under the guise of keeping me safe. The voice that my brother loves so much. 

My stomach sinks. He’s been one step ahead of us this entire time. We never had a chance. The only option now is to trick Moran into cockiness, hoping that it will make him slip up. It worked for Moriarty, it can work for his second. 

“Of course it’s you. Congratulations on fooling me. It’s a privilege not held by many.” I call back, letting my hand slip from John’s arm. 

“Why thank you, Mr Holmes. I must say, I wasn’t expecting both the Holmes’ to be quite so oblivious. Mycroft really was smitten with me, you know- well, until I battered him over the head.” He laughs to himself, stepping forward out of the darkness. As I thought, he’s holding a gun aloft, aiming it at me. 

I hear John’s small gasp beside me as he finally understands the gravity of the situation. Moran’s been hiding in the government for months, protected by one of the most influential figures of the decade. He’s had months to plan this. 

“Don’t worry your prettily little head, he’s still alive. I needed to get to you first.” Of course he is. I never worried over Mycroft’s safety. If he died, Moran would have found it much harder to trap me. He needs him alive, especially if he thinks he can just walk back into his role after taking care of John and me. 

“Do I even need to ask why we’re here?” I say, ignoring his jibe. He’s Moriarty’s man through and through. 

Beside me, John slowly begins to raise his gun. I admire his bravado, but Moran is a highly trained marksman. John would never be able to fire a shot first.

“You don’t, but we should probably let poor John know what’s going on. He’s a bit slow isn't he?” Anger flashes across my face before I can stop myself. Internally I curse, hoping that Moran didn't see that he hit a nerve. He can insult me all he wants, I’ve had a lifetime of practice, but not John. Never John. 

“Oh, and John? You can point that gun at me all you want, it’s not going to make a difference. It’s not him I’m here for.” His gun sweeps over to point at John, the first time he’s physically acknowledged his existence since he emerged. 

“You see, little John, Sherlock here took something away from me and now it’s time he gave it back.” A scowl rips across his face, rage radiating outwards like heat from a fire. 

Realisation sweeps through me and I am frozen. I was merely the bait in a trap. Moran has no intention of hurting me. He wants clear cut, old fashioned revenge. An eye for an eye. James for John. 

“Moriarty is dead- I can’t bring him back-“ I reply, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible though I’m dying inside. I need to work out a plan fast. 

“I know.” He snarls, “I know he won’t come back. You took him from me.” 

He turns now to look at John, the look in his eyes almost possessive as if John is something he can claim. 

“You took mine, now I’m taking yours.” 

Beside me, John's shoulders fall. He understands. I’m sorry, John. It’s my fault you’re here. You should be safe at home, away from the madman above us. I should have refused to stay after Mycroft admitted to the truth. The impossible truth that this nightmare wasn't over. His eyes flicker over to look at me, as if he can hear every thought that runs through my head. They silently ask what we’re going to do. 

Distraction. Moran is clearly emotional, if I can distract him for long enough there is the chance that John can fire before he realises. ‘Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.’ I believed that, once. Before I saw how John changed me, for the better. He made me a better man, a better detective, and a better friend. I owe him everything, and I love him for it. I cannot imagine my life without him anymore. 

“You won’t be able to escape this time. Mycroft will know. He’ll find you.” It’s a stab in the dark but I try it anyway.

“Oh, I have no intention of escaping this, Sherlock. This is the end for me. I only want you to feel how I feel- to understand how broken a person can become.” He’s beginning to shout, emotion getting the better of him. I understand now that Moran was a force to be reckoned with. Not just Moriarty’s right-hand man, but his friend- one of the only people in this dark world who actually, truly, cared for him. I should never have underestimated him. 

“He was my everything. He was everything and you took him away.”

“Moriarty killed himself, I didn't pull the-“ 

“He was obsessed with you. All he could ever think about was how to defeat you. How to make you fall.” He spits the last word out like it’s poison on his lips. “Oh I knew you were more trouble than it was worth, but he couldn't stop talking about you. Sherlock this, Sherlock that. It was hard to compete with a man I had never met.” He pauses in a grimace, memories flashing past his eyes. “You didn't pull the trigger, but you as good as handed him the gun.” 

A small silence settles over us, the weight of Moran's words falling onto our shoulders. Now, if ever, is the time to act. 

John places four fingers gently against the back of my hand, barely moving enough for Moran to notice. Four seconds, that’s all we have. 

I count them in my head, closely watching Moran for the slightest inclination of movement. For now, he seems wrapped up in his thoughts of hatred and rage. It won't last long though. Soon, he won’t be able to stop himself. Soon it will be over. John and I can go home and finally just be us. No constantly looming threat, no unspoken secrets. Just Sherlock and John, the way it’s meant to be. 

On the last second, I notice Moran’s trigger finger twitch. No. Without hesitating, I push my body in front of Johns, just as- 


	32. Two

**22nd October 2015**

**7:23 AM**

**(John)**

Two gunshots fire simultaneously. Two. We were too late. This is it, for me. 

It takes a moment for me to register that I’m still alive, still standing with the gun clutched in my hand. My lifeline. Relief sweeps through me. We made it. Moran missed, we’re going to be fine, we’re-

Finally, my brain registers what’s in front of me. I barely hear the slap of Moran’s body on concrete as he staggers and falls off of the viewing platform, dead before he hits the ground. All I can see is the pool of blood seeping over the floor in front of me, with Sherlock lying in the middle. 

“Sherlock-“ I whisper, before fully shouting: “Sherlock! No…” 

I feel like I’m dreaming. None of this is real. This is a dream, I’m not here, Sherlocks not really-

The sob leaves my throat before I can control it. 

“No, no, no. This isn't how it’s meant to end. This isn't what happens to us. We go home, to how everything was before. We go home and you kiss me, you never stop. I never want you to stop. We take cases and you wind up Lestrade, though you like him really. He’s one of the only people who gets you. We keep chasing criminals through London and when enough time passes by we grow old together. That’s how things are meant to be. Not like this. Never like this”

I scoop him up in my arms, holding him to my chest. Blood seeps through my clothes but I don't care. Maybe, just maybe, if I hold him tight enough he will come back. He won’t really be gone. 

He can’t be gone. 


	33. Epilogue: Lifetime of waiting

**22nd October 2015**

**2:03 PM**

**(Mycroft)**

I stand in the doorway of the warehouse, barely registering what’s in front of me. Harrison/Moran’s body lies crumpled in a heap in the far end of the room, his eyes still open in disbelief. This, however, is not what I see first. 

John sits in the middle of the room, cradling my brother in his arms. I know before I see him that he is gone. 

John is rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. 

“Oh, John,” I whisper, gesturing for the armed police officers to stand down. I’m glad I refused to let Lestrade join this one. 

Slowly, I walk towards John, making my steps loud, letting them echo off the walls to alert him of my presence. He stops rocking but doesn't move, still clinging to Sherlock with everything he has. 

I rest my hand on his shoulder as I approach, gently moving to sit beside him. 

“John,” I start, but he interrupts before I can finish.

“No.”

I stay silent for a moment, watching John’s face. He’s been crying, but there are no tears left. His face looks hollow and empty, carved out by the bullet in Sherlock’s brain.

“John-“ I try again.

“No. He’s not gone. He’s not gone. He’s not-“

Tears start to leak from his eyes again. They dribble down his cheeks, getting caught on the sticky tracts made by their predecessors. 

“Shhhh.” I reach out for John’s hand and he lets me. We sit for a while, alone in the middle of the warehouse, clinging to the last memory of Sherlock Holmes. 

***

John has to be sedated before he’ll let go of Sherlock’s body. He’s taken home to his bed to sleep it off. 

I sit in their living room, feeling very out of place. This is not my home to grieve in. This is his, this is where he felt the most himself. I feel as if I am intruding into something that is not mine to share. 

Waves of panic and bereavement bubble up in my throat, threatening to spill over. I repress them, knowing that once they overflow there will be no stopping it. Today, it is John’s turn. I have to be strong, for him. My grief will come later. 

***

John is lifeless for the next few days. He says nothing, gets up only to empty his bladder, then crawls back into bed. I stay in the flat, watching over him. I know that there is nothing in this world that I can do to help him. This should never have happened. If I had been more careful-

The wave of panic builds again. I take a breath and push it down, knowing that I won’t be able to do it for much longer. 

Mrs Hudson comes up a few times, pottering about, trying to help. Her face is red raw and she doesn't do anything of use, but I know that it helps her to try. I accept tea from her whenever she is here, just so that she feels useful. Eventually, she descends the stairs again and leaves the flat silent. 

***

A week later, John finally emerges from his room. It startles me when he walks into the kitchen, dressed, and starts making tea. 

“John?” I call out, sitting up from my makeshift bed on the sofa. 

“Mycroft.” He replies curtly, as if nothing in the world is wrong. 

“How are we feeling?” I ask tentatively, unsure as to what is running through his mind. 

“I’m okay. Yourself?” I’m taken aback. His words hit me like a punch. A week ago his best friend and love of his life died, and now he’s okay?? Anger pulses through me and I have to work hard to keep it down. Now is not the time.

“John, Sherlock is-“

“NO.” He replies, raising his voice and slamming the mug onto the counter. It breaks, ceramic pouring off the counter. Silence seeps through the flat, dripping off the surfaces and onto the floor. I wait. 

“Sherlock is fine. He’s just gone away again. He’ll be back. He’s fine.” 

My heart sinks into my stomach. John. John. Is that what you really think?

“John, he hasn’t-“

“No, Mycroft. It’s okay. I know you can’t tell me. This is just what he does, isn't it? He’ll be back soon. He’ll be back.” He keeps muttering to himself as if repeating it will make the words true. 

John, I think you’ll have a lifetime to wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hoped you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Thank you to chaserjinx8065 for your encouragement and never ending enthusiasm: this fic is for you. 
> 
> Find me on twitter: @writing_loud


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